


Hazard Control

by Kerkerian_StopYulin



Series: Sherlock and Mrs Hudson's mutual history [4]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Drama, Eventual Johnlock, Friends to Lovers, Friendship, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Post-Reichenbach
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-10
Updated: 2013-11-21
Packaged: 2017-11-25 00:17:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 22
Words: 93,691
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/633084
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kerkerian_StopYulin/pseuds/Kerkerian_StopYulin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John has not expected to see Sherlock again. 10 months after his friend's supposed death however, he's called upon by Mycroft because his skills and his person are needed. Consequently, he has to deal with a very ill consulting detective, his not so uncaring brother, Mrs Hudson, some glimpses into the Holmes boys' childhood, a butler, his own feelings and their changing relationship.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Key

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: Sadly, I do not own Sherlock Holmes or any recognizable character and am not making any profit by using them.
> 
> Author´s notes: In my story "Stopping It" I have written about Sherlock returning after the Reichenbach Fall. Let me quote my own notes from that one: In the books, Sherlock needs three years to take down Moriarty´s web, I believe. Since "Sherlock" is set in modern times, I don´t think he´d need that long nowadays, and Mycroft (I´m convinced he knows that Sherlock is still alive) or his connections might be of help.
> 
> This story is very different from "Stopping It", as you will see in case you´ve read it, but what I am quoting above still holds true.
> 
> It´s another one of the "Sherlock comes back" stories; it doesn´t try to explain how he faked his death, it mainly deals with the aftermath. The story is set roughly eleven months after the last episode. Please note that there are spoilers for TRF as well as the series in general.
> 
> I am no native English speaker and therefore apologize for any mistakes.
> 
> And now: enjoy!

o o o

**Hazard Control  
**

o o o

Part 1: The Key

o

John Watson snorts with frustration when he finds a sleek black limousine waiting for him at the curb in front of the surgery. It´s been a long night shift, he´s tired, and the last thing he wants is to put up with anything Mycroft Holmes might come up with.

Though John really has no idea what the man might want from him; now that Sher- that things have changed, he doesn´t see any need to associate with Mycroft at all, considering that the one thing they had in common is gone. And the last thing John needs is a reminder of that. So he ignores the car and walks on. He can hear one of the car doors open and rolls his eyes, but doesn´t pause.

To his surprise, it is Mycroft who falls into step with him. He has never before bothered to come himself, he has after all enough staff at his disposal to do the trench work. Yet now he is there, picking up John´s stride and looking his usual calm self, at least at first glance.

"John," he says, "it´s been some time."

Starting with amenities. Also out of the ordinary when concerning the older Holmes.

"Ten months," John replies tersely. Ten months, 21 days and 19 hours to be more precise, he adds in the privacy of his mind.

"Yes. Time has been flying." Mycroft´s tone remains neutral, making John stop in his tracks rather abruptly because he realizes that he can´t do it; he can´t talk to Mycroft. There´s too much anger and resentment on John´s part, and most importantly of all, it hurts.

If he can´t have the one Holmes he wants, he won´t suffer the other, wrong one.

"What do you want?" he asks in a flat voice.

Mycroft regards him silently for a moment before he gets directly to the point, sensing that John is at the end of his tether already: "You are needed."

John shakes his head: "Could you be any more cryptic?"

"I am going to explain everything to you in the car."

"Of course you are. Except that I won´t get in."

"John, please. I am not asking for my own sake."

"Then who are you asking for, I´d like to know, because last I looked we didn´t have any mutual friends." He swallows, suddenly feeling a lump in his throat. He shouldn´t have allowed Mycroft to engage him in this conversation.

Mycroft doesn´t budge: " _Please_ ," he all but pleads, and there´s an urgency in his voice that sounds very unlike him.

John sighs, running a hand through his hair: "Okay. _Okay_. I will come. But this is the last time, do you hear me? And you´ll take me back home afterwards."

Mycroft actually looks relieved.

Ten minutes later, John has half a mind to jump right out of the moving car because of what Mycroft has just told him.

"I was _there_ ," he says, barely keeping his composure. "I _saw_ him. He was d- . ... How could he possibly have survived? He looked-" He interrupts himself, taking a deep breath in order to keep back the tears which are still threatening to overwhelm him at all times, and simultaneously fighting to stave off the pictures which unwantedly and unbidden pop up in his mind. How he wishes that he could simply delete stuff, like Sherlock used to do.

Mycroft remains unperturbed: "How he did it is a slightly longer story. The fact remains that he had to fake his own death in order to protect you. Moriarty had snipers trained at you, Mrs Hudson and DI Lestrade. If Sherlock hadn´t jumped, you would all have been killed."

John stares at him in disbelief, eventually shaking his head: "He would have told me. He wouldn´t have let me believe it. He wouldn´t-" His voice gives out. Nearly eleven months and he still can´t bear talking about it.

"He had no other choice," Mycroft says softly.

"And you knew. He told you."

"He needed my help in certain matters, yes," Mycroft confirms. "Apart from that, I wasn´t one of those who Moriarty threatened. Which means I wasn´t in the same danger you would have been in, had Sherlock confided in you."

His face does not betray whether this actually pains him, but John would not have noticed anyway. He runs his hands over his face, leaves them there, hides behind them, trying to come to terms with what he has just heard. Sherlock is not dead. Sherlock lives. And Mycroft is taking John to see him. Today. Now.

He starts to shake, he is not sure if he is ready for this. At the same time, he longs for it. Has longed for it for ten months, 21 days and 19 hours. Sherlock. He has missed him so much that it felt like going mad at times. He has lost count of the occasions on which he has talked to him, simply because he couldn´t bear his absence.

He has stopped visiting the grave since it hurt too much, feeling as though the wound was being reopened every time . And he has been wondering, during the long nights in which he has lain awake, grieving, if he would ever be able to stop mourning and return to a state of normality. Only normality wasn´t what he wanted; he wanted to be back in 221B Baker Street with Sherlock. Sherlock, whom he is going to meet soon. Why now, he wonders.

And suddenly he recalls the exact words Mycroft has used earlier: _you are needed_.

"Why did you tell me now, why did he not tell me himself and why now? Is he all right?" he asks quietly, not trusting his own voice and not caring how he sounds. "Is... Sherlock all right?" God, he hasn´t used the name in the present tense for so long.

"He will be," Mycroft replies, sending a jolt of anxiety through John.

"Why, what happened?"

"He has spent the past ten months taking down Moriarty´s web. He has succeeded to do so a few days ago, and has returned to England only yesterday and in a rather bad shape, I´m afraid."

The worry which has been there before increases considerably.

"What do you mean by 'bad shape'?"

Mycroft´s voice does not betray any emotions. "The past ten months have been difficult and dangerous for him, make no doubt of that. He refused to take any more help than absolutely necessary, therefore he has been on his own for most of the time. Even I only have a vague idea of the extent of his deprivations, but one look at him is enough to make a good guess."

John can imagine that, knowing how Sherlock tends to neglect himself even at the best of times.

"My cook found him at my back door yesterday evening," Mycroft continues, "where he had collapsed, apparently. How he has gotten back I can´t say; he hasn´t been lucid enough to tell me anything, and hasn´t used the transport I have offered. Yet through other sources I have received intelligence that he has achieved what he set out to do. And now it´s left to us to pick up the pieces."

Which John translated into "make sure Sherlock is going to be all right".

"You still haven´t told me what is wrong with him," John says agitatedly; the shaking has decreased to a tremor.

"Forgive me," Mycroft says, for the first time showing signs of strain, "it´s all been a little much for me as well. I am quite glad about the recent developments, you see, but Sherlock has to remain my foremost priority. He seems to have sustained several earlier if minor injuries, which have largely been left untreated. Apart from that, there is a wound on his side which looks like the graze of a projectile, and he is running a fever. He is rather dehydrated and as you can imagine, appears to have hardly eaten anything."

John wishes that the car would go faster.

"Has he been treated yet?" he asks, just one of the thousand questions which reel around in his mind.

"I have a nurse in my staff who is caring for him presently, but I haven´t called for any other doctor, seeing as he would not want that."

"I take it she is sufficiently qualified or you wouldn´t have hired her?"

"Correct. More than sufficiently, actually; she is very capable and will be of further assistence to you, if need be."

The car eventually slows down and turns onto a driveway; a handsome iron gate opens and reveals a long drive, while the house is still hidden by the trees. When it finally comes in sight, after a drive through what looks like a park rather than a garden, John can´t but be impressed.

"The family manor," Mycroft provides, unnecessarily.

"And this is where you live?"

"Somebody has to keep it up."

"Hm."

John looks at the magnificent building and finds that at the moment, it´s nothing more to him than the place where he´ll see Sherlock again.

The door is opened by a butler, completely with a frock coat and white gloves, giving John the feeling that he has stepped back in time. There are suits of armour in the hall, and a grand staircase on each side. Mycroft leads John upstairs on one of them, along a corridor with thick carpets, and finally into a room to their left. John hardly notices any details like the intricately carved woodwork everywhere, he´s too nervous and excited and worried all at once.

The room they have entered is dimly lit and looks like it´s taken directly from _Downton Abbey_ ; rich fabrics and heavy, antique furniture everywhere.

A petite Indian woman in plain dark clothes is sitting in a chair next to the large bed; she gets up when Mycroft enters, and approaches them.

Mycroft introduces her as Surinder Singh, and John briefly thinks that he likes the name; it has a musical quality to it.

"Call me Surinder," she offers while they are shaking hands, and with a short look towards the bed continues: "Mr. Holmes hasn´t fully woken up yet, though he did seem to react to my voice a few times. His temperature is static at 39°C, despite the medication."

John´s gaze is drawn to the bed, and his heart jumps. He doesn´t even register how Mycroft and Surinder leave the room to give him some privacy.

John´s eyes never leave Sherlock as he approaches him, slowly, as though one false move could shatter this new-found reality; his friend seems to disappear into the bedding, looking insubstantial and small.

His hair is shorter than usual, his hairline sweaty with fever, a few dark strands plastered to the skin. Bruise-like smudges under his eyes and skin so white it almost looks translucent give him a dramatic appearance, emphasized by a wound on his temple, which has been stapled together expertly.

The detective is wearing a too large shirt, probably Mycroft´s, and an IV-line is attached to the back of his hand, the wrist of which is bandaged. His arms are thin and seem bare of any strength as they are lying on the quilt, just like the rest of him. He looks fragile and vulnerable, and his body seems tense even in his unconscious state. It feels wrong to see him like this, defeated and helpless.

John doesn´t realize that he´s crying until he tastes the salt on his lips. Sherlock seems barely alive, and the idea that he might not survive in the end is too horrible to bear thinking about.

Cautiously, the doctor sits down on the edge of the bed, taking Sherlock´s uninjured hand in his. The detective flinches ever so slightly at being touched, but John can´t talk yet, not even to reassure his friend. With his thumb, he gently strokes Sherlock´s cold hand in order to soothe him while he is waiting for his own tears to abate.

When they do, he clears his throat, wiping his face with his sleeve: "Sherlock, it´s John. I´m sorry... I was just... I hadn´t expected to ever see you again. I... I am so glad. I am angry as well, mind you, but that can wait until later. For now I´m just..." He sniffles, fresh tears threatening to spill. This is a lot more difficult than he could have imagined. Ever.

He is still wrangling with his composure when Sherlock moves. His head is tilted to John´s side, and John is sure that he has seen his brows twitch ever so slightly.

"Sherlock," he murmurs, reaching out to touch his face. This time, Sherlock doesn´t flinch as John´s fingers gently stroke his much too warm skin. He exhales somewhat strainedly, as though he has been holding his breath, and shudders, then slowly opens his eyes. They are glazed over and bloodshot, but Sherlock´s gaze focuses on John. His eyes widen a fraction as he recognizes him, and relief illuminates his exhausted features. "J'hn," he breathes.

"Yes, I´m here." John reinforces his grip around Sherlock´s hand. "I´ll stay with you, you´re safe."

Sherlock can´t keep his eyes open any longer, but he seems to relax. The tension in his body visibly abates as he drifts off.

John stays with him like that until he sure that Sherlock is soundly asleep.

Surinder helps him as he assesses Sherlock´s injuries; the wound on his side does need a few stitches and is slightly inflamed, but apart from that, the nurse has cared well for Sherlock. John is appalled by how emaciated he is, and there is too much evidence of violence altogether. There are at least two ribs which have been broken and aren´t completely healed yet from what John can feel, and the better part of Sherlock´s body is bruised and battered, his blood pressure low, if steady.

Sherlock remains oblivious throughout the examination, even when John sutures the wound. He is on medication for the fever and pain, which is probably enough to severely knock him out in his current state. John doesn´t know how Mycroft does it, but they are well-supplied. John certainly wouldn´t put it past him that the prescription drugs and equipment have been obtained through illegal channels, but who knows. It might either be a testimony of Mycroft´s more ruthless side, or he simply has got very good connections.

After they are done, Surinder exchanges the drip which provides Sherlock with fluids and nutrients, then goes to rest for a bit. Just like John and Mycroft, she has been up all night. John is equally tired himself, but he wouldn´t dream of leaving Sherlock´s side. He keeps cooling Sherlock´s skin with a cold cloth, struggling to keep his eyes open and himself upright.

When Mycroft looks in on them a while later, he finds both of them asleep. John has lain down on the bed next to Sherlock, one hand touching Sherlock´s shoulder.

Mycroft almost timidly reaches out to feel Sherlock´s temple with the back of his fingers; still too warm. But at least Sherlock is asleep now rather than unconscious, as Surinder has informed him.

He rather heavily sits down in the vacated chair, a little shaky, and beholds his brother. Sherlock looks very pallid and frail.

Without making a conscious decision, Mycroft reaches out and feels for Sherlock´s uninjured hand, which is entangled in the bundled-up edge of the quilt; when he touches it, his brother´s fingers nestle into his palm, just as they used to do when they have both been much younger. An eternity ago.

To his utter horror and surprise, Mycroft feels like weeping. He is seldomly aware how much he misses having a family, a real family that feels affection for each other instead of constant rivalry and contest. He wishes Sherlock and he were still close or that he could occasionally turn back time. He misses being important to Sherlock. It certainly feels like it now that he is sitting here, watching over his brother; at least if one does take into account that said brother is too ill to protest. Maybe he would do so if he woke up right now; Mycroft is fully prepared for that.

Sherlock gives a rather inaudible sigh and makes to turn over, which albeit would mean he would come to lie on his wounded side. Again, Mycroft doesn´t have to think about what to say: "No, Sherlock, don´t. It will hurt. Turn the other way." His voice is gentle, so as not to stir the other unnecessarily.

Sherlock´s breath hitches as he indeed stops in his motion; for a second, his eyes open. Mycroft braces himself, but the younger Holmes only regards him rather unfocusedly, and the smallest of smiles ghosts over his haggard face before he slowly begins to turn to the other side.

Mycroft lets go of Sherlock´s hand as he´d otherwise twist the sleeping man´s arm; he waits until Sherlock has settled, then pulls the quilt up a little further, mindful of the IV-line.

However, without giving any indication that he is alert otherwise, Sherlock rather clumsily frees his arm from under the covers again and fumbles around on the quilt´s soft surface. It takes Mycroft a moment to understand, but then he almost timidly reaches out again, offering his hand to his brother. When Sherlock´s touches his, the younger man stills, content at the reassurement of human contact, no matter how small. His long fingers curl around his brother´s, maybe he thinks it´s John.

Mycroft doesn´t mind; with his free hand he pulls the chair right up to the bed, then sits down very slowly, never letting go of Sherlock´s hand, and leans back.

He is glad that he has gotten John here, he is convinced that the doctor is the key to Sherlock´s healing.

When John wakes up two hours later, he finds that Mycroft has fallen asleep in the chair; his arm is stretched out, and Sherlock is clutching Mycroft´s hand in his sleep. John smiles; so the rift between them can be overcome at times.

Slowly, John gets up and stretches. His gaze lingers on Sherlock, who is sleeping peacefully. John is still tired, but he will be okay for now. As long as he finds some food, that is. He slips into his boots and walks towards the door to look for the kitchen.

The huge house seems empty. John ambles along the corridor until he reaches the staircase. Now that he isn´t in a rush anymore, he can appreciate the décor. Yet it feels like a museum rather than a family home, and he tries to imagine Sherlock and Mycroft as children, running around and playing here.

Downstairs, John randomly opens doors and looks inside; he doesn´t feel like an intruder because there doesn´t seem to be anything personal, it rather gives the impression that anyone who has lived here is long since dead.

He comes across a library and enters it; a beautiful grand piano is situated in front of a large bay window, the rest of the room is filled with books; shelves are lining the walls. There is one big fireplace, the sort where a child could stand in, and it seems that it has recently been used. There also is a desk in front of another window; John steps closer to examine a number of photographs, which are being held by silver frames and displayed on the polished surface.

Most of them are black and white, showing people in dark clothes and with serious faces. Then there´s a wedding picture, probably Mr and Mrs Holmes; both of them are tall, and he can see that Sherlock resembles his mother. She has got the same thin face with those prominent cheekbones.

Then there´s Mrs Holmes with a baby, probably Mycroft but it´s hard to tell; and another one which shows two children: in this one, it is unmistakable who´s who. Mycroft, probably in his teens, clearly overweight but still (or maybe precisely because of it) trying to look imposing, and Sherlock. He can´t have been older than four or five; a surprisingly small boy given how tall he is now, pale eyes piercing the photographer, a head of curly dark hair. Neither of them smiles.

John, touched by how much sadness is conveyed through this picture, puts it down again and turns to leave. And jumps. He hasn´t heard anyone approaching, but now there´s the butler standing in the door, smiling minutely and bowing. "May I be of assistance, sir?"

John scratches his head: "Yes, er, I was wondering whether I could get a sandwich or something."

"Certainly, sir. Please allow me to show you to the dining room."

"D- but there´s no need-"

"Please, sir."

The hell. John follows the butler.

Half an hour later John returns to Sherlock´s room; he has been served a perfectly cooked omelette with fried tomatoes and fresh rye bread. The dining room turned out to be huge, just like the rest of the house, and had been decorated with life-sized chess pieces, or so it seemed. Which John found rather intimidating when faced with on his own. The whole house does not give the impression that one could feel at home in it, much less consider it cosy.

Luckily, he has counted the number of doors in the corridor, otherwise he might have had to search for the right room on his way back.

Mycroft has gone, and Sherlock is still lying on his side.

John perches on the edge of the bed to feel his temple; he is pleased to see that Sherlock opens his eyes when he feels the slight jolting of the mattress.

"Hey," John´s fingers rest against Sherlock´s skin for a moment; the fever is still there, he doesn´t need a thermometer to confirm that. So no reason for relief yet.

Sherlock watches him out of the corner of his eye: "J'hn," he murmurs, his voice barely audible. "´m s'rry."

"Shh," John doesn´t want him to overexert himself. "No talking just yet."

Sherlock sighs, and it does sound frustrated.

"It´s okay, Sherlock," John says quietly. "Mycroft has told me why you did it. We´ll talk later. Back in Baker Street, preferably."

He is being rash; maybe Sherlock doesn´t even want to return there. Yet John can´t help himself: he needs to have something to look forward to, something to help him keep up his strength, so that he in turn can be strong for Sherlock.

The detective, still weighed down by the drugs and his bone-deep exhaustion, struggles to keep his eyes open and mumbles something which sounds like _I missed you_.

"I missed you, too." John replies in a tender voice, his hand stroking over the unruly curls of Sherlock´s hair, and bends down to press a kiss on his friend´s temple. He has never taken any such liberties with Sherlock before, but it feels justified and not at all out of the ordinary at that. They are friends who have just overcome the frontier between life and death, after all.

Sherlock doesn´t seem to mind, on the contrary: he gives another sigh, this time sounding relieved, before his eyes close again.

John regards him, thinking that Sherlock might after all have to go to a hospital if his condition doesn´t improve soon; he is so very weakened.

John will talk to Mycroft about it, but for now, he is content to just sit with Sherlock and watch him sleep, allowing them both a moment of peace.

**o o o**

**To Be Continued  
**

**o o o  
**

Thank you for reading, feedback welcome!

 


	2. His Usual Complicated Self

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: Sadly, I do not own Sherlock Holmes or any recognizable character and am not making any profit by using them.
> 
> Thank you all for reading. And now: enjoy!

o o o

**Hazard Control  
**

o o o

Part 2: His Usual Complicated Self

o

When Sherlock comes round the next time, he doesn´t realize he´s awake at first because of the lingering remnants of a dream; the pictures vanish rapidly, words faintly echoing as they disappear. His mind is slow, and he feels uncomfortably hot. His whole body aches and reminds him that something is not right, and he has a feeling that he already knows what it is, even though he can´t recall it right now. He struggles to open his eyes, lids feeling like lead, but eventually succeeds.

He is greeted with a smile, a kind, genuine and affectionate smile which hurriedly replaces a worried frown on the person´s face; John, his brain provides after a few seconds, and with the name comes a feeling of relief. Everything will be all right if John is there. Sherlock tries to tell him so, but his voice doesn´t obey him. He croaks something unintellligible, too stubborn to give up yet, until John stops him: "Easy, Sherlock. Let me get you some water first."

Sherlock wants to sit up but finds that his arms don´t obey either; they won´t support his weight. Appalled, he tries again, to no avail. There is a faint, unpleasant sensation of a dragging pain in his left side, and he is shaking from the exertion. But then John´s strong arm gently winds around Sherlock´s shoulders, helping him into a sufficiently upright position.

He is leaning against John, which isn´t the worst thing that could happen. He has missed him, and John makes him feel safe, reminding him of better times. He can feel John´s heartbeat, strong and rather fast right now, and he likes it. He would rather not be dependent on anyone, but if it´s John, it´s bearable. John helps him to drink water through a straw, holding the glass with one hand and never letting go of Sherlock with the other.

The doctor can feel the heat which radiates from the ill man´s body: his temperature is still too high. His body is thoroughly depleted, which worries John; the injuries do not explain this continuous high temperature, and he is afraid that they might have overlooked something. What if Sherlock has suffered internal injuries as well? Traumata were often accompanied by fever, after all. It could however simply be a badly working defense mechanism, fighting off who knows which germs. Who knew where Sherlock´s been.

John forces himself to remain calm and not letting anything on. He coaxes Sherlock to drink some broth as well, then gently eases his friend back down. Sherlock´s gaze lingers on John until his eyes close again.

 

Apart from a bout of vomiting, during which Sherlock expels the meagre contents of his stomach, the night remains calm. On the following morning however, Sherlock doesn´t recognize Surinder at all and recoils from her, flinching at her touch.

John, who has taken a quick shower, hears the commotion as the approaches the room. He drops the towel and bathrobe he´s been carrying and hurries to get inside. Sherlock is strangely dazed, the fever having climbed to 40°C, but he still puts up a struggle, shrinking from the nurse as far as possible; he is running the risk of pulling the cannula for the IV-line out.

John motions for Surinder to step back and perches down on the edge of the bed, bending over Sherlock and laying one hand on his cheek, effectively stilling him: "Sherlock," he tries to soothe him, "it´s me, John. Look at me."

Sherlock´s heart is racing. He blinks, disoriented: "John?"

"Yes." Slowly, John takes Sherlock´s hand in his free one: "Do you recognize me?"

"´course..." Sherlock looks exhausted. "John," he mumbles, as though trying to memorize the name. At least his voice is a little stronger now. His eyes widen with alarm as John makes to get to his feet, so the doctor sits down again; he doesn´t want Sherlock to become so agitated, he can´t afford to spend what is left of his strength.

"I´m not going to leave you," he says in what he hopes is his most reassuring voice.

Sherlock closes his eyes, trusting his friend´s words. As long as John is there, even the dull ache in his limbs and his back is bearable, especially if he doesn´t move too much. Slowly, his heart rate decreases to a normal pace, and he drifts off.

So John sits with him, dabbing at Sherlock´s forehead and temples with a cold cloth, and feeling helpless. Surinder retreats to her room again, sensing that John prefers to be alone with his patient. Every once in a while Sherlock opens his eyes for a moment, slipping in and out of sleep, or rather, the unconsciousness that his sleep has turned into again.

 

He has lost track of time, but it doesn´t bother him. John is there, which means all is well. Or at least as well as possible. He is aware that he is ill, but his recollection of the circumstances are rather foggy; he can´t remember how he got here, but he recognizes the room. And John is with him, which means his condition is more serious than he assumed upon first waking up. He certainly does feel dreadful; apart from his battered body, his thoughts are going slow and his memory is failing him; the cold cloth John is fiddling with doesn´t help with that.

He has no idea how he got here, for instance, or why he chose Mycroft´s house of all places. All he knows is that John is sitting next to him, his hand around Sherlock´s, keeping him safe. His presence is reassuring; though Sherlock can´t recall what has happened, he is sure that John has got everything under control. He does look tired; maybe Mrs Hudson will bring him some tea. With that reassuring thought in mind, Sherlock closes his eyes again.

He is not aware that he has been talking, and any other person than John would have taken it for gibberish; John however understood most of it, even though it hardly made any sense. He decides not to wait any longer; after Sherlock has fallen silent and closed his eyes again, John calls for Surinder to keep watch, and goes to find Mycroft.

The older Holmes is sitting in the library; he has been staring at the same pictures John has looked at earlier, an absent expression on his face.

In fact, when Mycroft awoke with a crick in his neck and still with his hand entwined with Sherlock´s, he found that it was too much to bear. He cautiously pulled his hand away, evoking a small moan from his brother; when Sherlock didn´t wake however, Mycroft got to his feet and silently left the room.

He was feeling dreadful, having taken advantage of Sherlock´s non-sentient state to indulge himself in some phoney emotions. As soon as his brother was back on his feet, they would return to their former animosity, that much was clear. Making all this even more horrible; Mycroft inevitably is going to remember their moment of ceasefire, and it´s going to be painful, just because being needed by his younger brother again felt so incredibly good.

 

He can see Sherlock´s five year old self standing in the library, recalling the day clearly: it had been raining for hours, and Sherlock, seizing the opportunity when it stopped, had ventured outside and promptly fallen into a puddle. Their mother, always strangely absent in her mind, probably planning the next social gathering, had patted Sherlock on his head, then called the maid to get the child changed into dry clothes and afterwards clean the floor, and had left the room.

And Sherlock had been standing there, trying very hard not to cry because he had lost his teddy outside which was much worse than wet clothes, but he was not allowed to go back outside and look for him. Mycroft, aged 17 at the time, watched the maid fussing about his brother, telling him to stay where he was in order not to drip on all of the floor, and made him step out of his trousers and socks.

"Stay right there," she instructed him and left the room. Mycroft got up from his chair and walked over to Sherlock, careful not to step into the small puddles, and knelt down in front of him: "What is wrong?" he asked gently, as he could see that Sherlock was near tears, and it was hardly because of getting wet; Sherlock was made of sterner stuff than that.

Sherlock sniffled: "Nuffles is still outside," he said, "he is going to be afraid. And he won´t be able to sleep tonight."

"Where exactly is he?" Mycroft knew how important the little teddy was to Sherlock.

Who pulled up his shoulders into a hesitant shrug: "I´m not sure," he whispered, "we went to the fountain and he ran away."

Mycroft subdued a sigh; he had spent a large amount of time in his life looking for Nuffles, who had a tendency to 'run away'and get himself into all kinds of predicaments. Such as falling down a well.

"I´m going to look for him," he promised. "I´m sure he´ll be fine."

Sherlock looked relieved and without protest let the maid, who had returned with fresh clothes, continue with her fussing.

Mycroft took his umbrella and went outside, where he soon discovered Nuffles behind one of the fountain´s statues. How he had gotten there remained a mystery to him. Nuffles was a little wet as well, but otherwise unharmed.

When Mycroft returned to the library, their father was there, having sat Sherlock down and giving him a lecture about being more careful when running around outside, because incidents like these were unpleasant and only meant additional work for their staff. The essence of it being that preferably he should stop running around altogether, since he was old enough to spend his days with something reasonable, e.g. school work.

Sherlock in the big chair looked small but brave as he faced his father, desperately trying to keep his face blank, and Mycroft, who had gotten the exact same lecture when he was about five, took pity on him: "Father."

"Ah, Mycroft. Have you finished the chart?"

"Not quite."

"I see. So where were you right now?"

"I was outside, getting some fresh air." Father needn´t know about Nuffles, it would only have made him angry.

"Well. I expect you to finish it today, so you better get back to work."

"Yes, sir."

With a nod, Mr Holmes left the room.

Mycroft had been old enough to emotionally detach himself, but Sherlock had been too young at the time. He stubbornly looked straight ahead, refusing to meet his brother´s gaze, but his eyes were brimming with tears.

Mycroft wordlessly picked him up and hugged him close for a moment, allowing the little boy to weep into his shoulder, walking back and forth and gently rocking his precious charge. He sometimes forgot how young Sherlock was, how frail; he seemed to weigh next to nothing.

Mycroft´s neck was wet by the time Sherlock calmed down. The teenager sat down in a wingback chair and settled Sherlock on his lap, then pulled Nuffles out of his pocket: "Look who´s back."

Sherlock silently took the teddy and pressed it to his chest, sighing contentedly, and Mycroft marvelled at the amount of comfort such a small stuffed toy could convey.

 

If only it were still so easy. He is pulled out of his thoughts by John, who out of formality knocks on the wooden door frame: "May I?"

"Please." Mycroft inclines his head, inviting John to join him.

The doctor seems uncomfortable as he sits down: "Mycroft- we need to get Sherlock into a hospital. With the limited means we have here, I can´t figure out where the fever comes from, and it´s still rising, most of the time he isn´t even lucid anymore. I have checked him over again, trying to find what causes it, but it´s only guesswork. The reason why it remains so high might be something else entirely. We don´t necessarily have to admit him, but we need to use their facilities. It´s too dangerous to keep him here."

Mycroft remains silent for a moment, then he nods. "Very well. I was hoping we might be able avoid it, but you are right, of course- we cannot take a risk such as that."

John releases a breath he hasn´t realized he was holding. "Good."

"I am going to make arrangements immediately," Mycroft says, "no questions asked."

"Right."

"We´re going by car, no ambulance."

"Okay." John nods. He understands that precautions like these might still be necessary.

o

John squats down next to the bed; for a moment, he just looks at Sherlock, who is lying on his back, pale and still, with the tell-tale hues of fever on his cheeks. If it weren´t for the slight movement of his chest, he´d look utterly lifeless. John regrets having to do so, but puts a hand on Sherlock´s shoulder: "Sherlock."

This time, Sherlock does not flinch or shy away; with an obvious effort, he opens his eyes, and just as before, he is not entirely lucid. John explains to him that he is being woken up again so that Surinder and John can prepare him for the transport; he is however confused as to why he has to get up and put on some clothes and his coat (his coat- John feels near tears again. It is so much a part of Sherlock that he has indeed missed it as well), and repeatedly asks after John.

"I´m here," John says gently every time, showing endless patience. He sits next to Sherlock in the car so that his friend can lean against him. John keeps his hand on Sherlock´s arm, unsure whether it´s for the detective´s comfort or his own. Mycroft, who is occupying the passenger seat, turns around to look at them a few times, but neither of them speaks.

Fortunately, the ride doesn´t take too long. John doesn´t recognize the hospital, which looks like a private clinic of sorts. Expensive, certainly, housed in a similarly impressive building as Holmes manor and also situated in a park. Good. No on-lookers then.

A nurse and a doctor are waiting for them when the car pulls up. John is glad that they don´t have to wait; together with the nurse he helps Sherlock onto a stretcher, awaiting protest but not getting any. On the contrary, his friend seems relieved to be lying down again. Staying at Sherlock´s side while they walk inside, John briefs the doctor on the situation while Mycroft goes and takes care of the formalities.

They are being led into a very posh-looking examination room, where John helps Sherlock to put on a hospital gown which is equally posh, not the open-at-the-back-model . The nurse takes some blood for tests while Sherlock is being prepared for an abdominal ultrasound examination, which is supposed to rule out any internal injuries.

Sherlock closes his eyes; he winces as the cold gel is being applied, but otherwise shows no sign of being alert.

 

Mycroft is waiting outside of whichever room Sherlock and John are in, depending on what is respectively being done; he knows that his brother prefers to have John with him, and he can deal with that. He has to admit that he, despite all his power and connections, has been rather helpless faced with this whole situation, which is stupid, of course. He could have taken Sherlock to a hospital and admitted him under a false name. Yet he had felt the need to get John instead; he is pretty sure that there are no more remnants of Moriarty´s web, but one can never be too careful. He couldn´t risk Sherlock´s life, because he wouldn´t be able to cope if his brother were to die.

It is not sentiment but a fact, if one no one must ever know. He loves Sherlock, has ever loved him. He just doesn´t know how to show it, and moreover, doesn´t want to. Sherlock would probably use it against him. Mycroft sighs, resting his chin on the handle of his umbrella: what a complicated family they are.

 

Barely four hours later they are back in the car on their way to Holmes Manor. John has never been so grateful for Mycroft´s influence, since it ensured that all procedures were done quickly and efficiently. Sherlock has been examined thoroughly; he has been awake, if dazed, for most of the time. He is asleep now, huddled into his coat.

John is relieved; the fever has turned out to be caused by an inflammation of the kidneys. Which in itself is not something to be glad about, of course, but at least they have found the reason and can begin treating it.

Mycroft turns around to John, looking puzzled: "He did not show most of the symptoms, if I understood correctly. Apart from the fever, obviously."

John shakes his head: "Rather a large number of concerned persons don´t. But the drowsiness is certainly stemming from it, and I do think he is suffering from joint pain, and probably abdominal pain too. He just couldn´t communicate it properly, with the state he is in. I bet he is aching all over."

Something like compassion flitted over Mycroft´s face. He hesitated before speaking again: "I see. So it wasn´t just..." He breaks off.

John smirks: "No. It wasn´t just his usual complicated self."

Mycroft is silent for a moment:"And we can be certain that the inflammation has been caused by bacteria rather than toxins or drugs?"

"Fairly certain. They have been very thorough."

Mycroft considers this: "Good."

John takes pity on him, for it is clear that Mycroft has been and still is genuinely worried and for once doesn´t bother to hide it:"He is going to be fine. We have discovered it early enough; it´s unlikely that he will suffer from any long-term effects, as Dr. Ford has confirmed."

"But how did he contract it at all?"

John refrains from telling Mycroft that Sherlock´s condition has most probably derived from self-neglect and the need to hide in whatever places he has been in, combined with something that started as a harmless cold but then developed into something graver, boosted by either bacteria or some wrong medication, or indeed a toxin of some kind. Speaking of badly working defense mechanism, he thinks.

John realizes that he doesn´t need to burden Mycroft with that, since he´s not stupid and can figure it out on his own, but more importantly: it´s not the point. The older Holmes is simply appalled by everything that Sherlock must have gone through, and very likely feels guilty for not being able to help him more.

John huffs: it all boils down to that damn rivalry between them. If they´d be a little closer, maybe Mycroft could have prevented this. On the other hand, Sherlock has always preferred to do things on his own, even with John.

"Stop mulling it over," he eventually says. "The important part is that he´s here now, and that we can help him."

 

Sherlock wakes up from the touch of a hand, a warm hand which feels familiar. He presses his cheek against it, savouring the feeling of safety it conveys. The hand hesitates, then it is joined by a voice: "Sherlock. Wake up, we´re... home."

Oh, good. Finally back in Baker Street. He does hope that John has kept his violin, he has missed it dearly. When he opens his eyes, he is sitting in a car, but while the house behind John, who is currently unfastening Sherlock´s seat-belt, looks familiar, it definitely is not 221B.

"Come on," John says, "time to get you out of the car."

Sherlock´s throat is dry, but he manages to get out a few words nevertheless:"Where´s... Mrs Hudson?"

"She´s not here." John gently pulls him onto his feet and quickly supports him with a firm arm while Mycroft helps from the other side: the detective´s legs don´t work at all.

Confused, Sherlock turns his head to look at his brother.

"She will make you tea," he croaks, only to be shushed by John. Carefully, so as not to aggravate his injuries, they take Sherlock inside and to his room. He mutters something about his violin, then falls silent.

They slowly ease him down on the edge of the mattress, keeping him in a sitting position so as not to induce vertigo.

"Should I get Surinder?" Mycroft asks, but John shakes his head no: "Too many people already," he mouthes, mindful of Sherlock´s dazed state, before turning his attention to him: "Let´s start with the coat, shall we?"

Sherlock´s limbs don´t seem to function properly, but somehow John manages to get him out of the coat, shoes, pants and cardigan Mycroft provided earlier, and helps him to lie down. Sherlock´s eyes are following John´s every movement while the doctor tucks him in.

He unpacks the antibiotics he has brought from the clinic: the first few units are going to be administered intravenously. Once Sherlock is more stable and properly eating (and John is determined to make him), he can take the rest in the form of pills.

"John," Sherlock murmurs, while the doctor reconnects the IV-line. "There was a car."

"Yes." John checks the rate of the drip. "We went for a ride."

"Mrs Hudson."

"She´s not here." Keeping Sherlock´s hand in his, John regards the other´s tired face: "You should try to get some rest. You will feel better soon."

"She´ll make tea."

John smiles: "Mrs Hudson? Yes, she probably will. Once we´re back in Baker Street."

"This is not Baker Street."

"No. We´re at Mycroft´s."

"Why. You said we´re home."

"Home for the time being."

"Oh." He remains silent for a moment: "Missed her."

"I´m sure the feeling´s reciprocated." John strokes Sherlock´s hand with his thumb: "Sleep now."

"My phone, John." With that, Sherlock closes his eyes.

John sighs inaudibly; he´s very tired as well, he doesn´t know what Sherlock meant, or whether he meant to say it at all, and worst of all, he has no idea how to tell Mrs Hudson that Sherlock has returned.

 

He jumps when he hears Mycroft´s soft voice, he hadn´t realized that the other one was still in the room: "You may go and rest, John. I will stay with him."

John nods and gets up. At the door he turns around once more; Mycroft is watching his sleeping brother, sad affection evident in his features.

"He is going to be all right," Mycroft murmurs in a very soft voice, addressing no one in particular.

John, suddenly feeling like an intruder, quietly slips out through the door.

**o o o**

**To Be Continued  
**

**o o o  
**

Feedback welcome!


	3. A Point is That Which Has No Part

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: Sadly, I do not own Sherlock Holmes or any recognizable character and am not making any profit by using them.
> 
> I am no native English speaker and therefore apologize for any mistakes.
> 
> Thank you all for reading. And now: enjoy!

o o o

**Hazard Control  
**

o o o

Part 3: A Point is That Which Has No Part

o

John sleeps for three hours. It´s getting dark when he wakes up, and he has no idea what has disturbed his slumber; he jerked awake and found himself half-sitting up, listening, just like he did when he had those recurring nightmares. Before he met Sherlock, and after the fall.

It wasn´t a nightmare this time, but going back to sleep is out of the question, even though John still feels weary. He leans back against the headboard and rubs his hand over his eyes. Within a relatively short time, his whole world has repeatedly been turned upside down. Getting wounded in Afghanistan, recovering, moving in with Sherlock, living and working with Sherlock, witnessing Sherlock´s death. And now, bringing Sherlock back to life.

Before the alleged suicide, Harry has constantly been pestering him, wanting to know everything about this strange flatmate of his; John never told her much, for he found it too difficult to get the nuances right. He couldn´t tell his sister how Sherlock could be rude and abrasive one moment but considerate and gentle the next, a walking caleidoscope of human behaviour, utterly unpredictable.

He couldn´t tell Harry that Sherlock despised sentiment and sometimes didn´t respect any personal boundaries, and yet was one of the most sensitive people John knew. He hardly ever went grocery-shopping, but when Mrs Hudson had fallen onto her bad hip and had been largely immobilized for days, Sherlock had gone to the shops for her, had even bought her some of her beloved scratchcards so she wouldn´t get bored, though he usually sneered at them.

It really would have taken ages to explain the way his mind worked, or rather the part of it which John understood, and he still wouldn´t have done his friend justice.

And he certainly had no intention of ever telling anyone how Sherlock had saved John from an unhappy life simply by existing and being his complicated self. John had been intrigued by him the moment they had met, admittedly unwillingly so at first, and if it hadn´t been for Mike Stamford´s fateful introduction of them both, John would very probably still be walking with a stick, limping around somewhere _dull_ at that, for he couldn´t have afforded to stay in London.

After Sherlock had been gone, John hadn´t known what to do with himself. He had felt as though he was floating through time and space with no real anchor to hold on to, no goal. He hadn´t needed one in a long time; he´d been content, even happy, living in 221B with the sociopath called Sherlock, had been able to enjoy the moment rather than worry about the future.

Sherlock´s alleged death had shaken him to the core, and on some days he had barely managed to get out of bed in the morning because he dreaded facing another new day alone. Oh, there had been people around him, people who had worried, like Harry or Greg Lestrade. John hadn´t wanted to talk to the first and couldn´t talk to the latter, so he ignored their calls and texts.

Mrs Hudson had been the only one he had not shut out completely, and just because he didn´t want to break her heart further. He had however given Baker Street a wide berth.

Baker Street. He suddenly feels an unexpected yet tremendous pang of homesickness, but it isn´t as painful as all those months before. He smiles, finally swinging his legs out of bed and getting up.

Mycroft is still with Sherlock. He hasn´t turned on any lights, but he has lit a candle. It sits on one of the window sills, silver candlestick holder reflecting the flickering flame.

He smiles somewhat strainedly when he hears John, but he doesn´t look at him as he speaks, his gaze remaining glued to his brother´s sleeping form: "I am indulging myself in a bit of sentimentalism, I´m afraid," he says quietly. "As long as Sherlock is not capable to protest, I can pretend that he wants me here. Strangely enough, it does elicit a rather cheerful spirit, even if the circumstances are rather dreadful."

John crosses his arms and looks down on his shoes: "What happened between the two of you?" he asks, equally quiet. "It can´t only have been the smurfs, judging from the way you usually treat each other."

Mycroft gives a soft, vague snort: "'There were... situations beyond our control, a long time ago." He clearly doesn´t want to talk about it. It´s ironic how much he resembles Sherlock in that.

"But it has been different. Once."

"Yes. While Sherlock was young enough to appreciate me." With this cryptic remark, Mycroft gets up: "Are you going to join me for supper? We have missed tea, I dare say."

John hesitates for a moment, but then nods. He walks over to the bed; in the faint light of the candle Sherlock´s face looks gaunt, the shadows being more pronounced. He seems fast asleep for a change, his expression finally peaceful.

"I am going to call Surinder," Mycroft says and turns to go. "I´ll be waiting in the dining room."

John nods again; when Mycroft has left, he turns on the lamp on the nightstand and blows the candle out. If Sherlock wakes up, he should be able to see where he is.

Now that Sherlock is properly medicated, the fever slowly begins to abate during the following day; too slow for John´s taste. Considering the inflammation and how weakened Sherlock is, it doesn´t come as a surprise however.

John stays with his friend most of the time. He still hasn´t comprehended everything that has happened during the past two days; if he leaves the room for too long, Sherlock might vanish again, and John is going to wake up like all those times after his worst nightmares, panting, shocked, scared and alone.

The rational part of him is certain that this is real, but for once it doesn´t manage to take over. He stays with Sherlock and that feels right. He has called in sick at the surgery, not caring about the money he´s missing out on; he has hardly spent any lately, so he´ll be fine for a while. And Sherlock is infinitely more important than that.

John looks up from the book he´s reading, which he has borrowed from Mycroft´s extensive library, and regards his sleeping friend. Sherlock looks far from healthy, but his skin tone is steadily improving from deathly pallor to being merely pale.

John is glad about this, however small a victory it may be. And he´s relieved that they didn´t have to leave Sherlock at the clinic; despite being a doctor, he doesn´t like hospitals, no matter how posh. The atmosphere is too cold, the lights are too harsh. He knows it´s irrational, but he hated seeing Sherlock being examined by his colleagues, reduced to being one patient among many rather than John´s best friend.

Inevitably, John wonders what is going to happen next, once Sherlock is back on his feet. The world still thinks he´s dead. Everyone still thinks he´s been a fraud. He is going to have to pick up the pieces, starting with Mrs Hudson and Lestrade. John sighs; he will help Sherlock, of course he will, but at the same time feels a little intimidated by the task lying ahead of them. And he´s got a personal bone to pick with his friend at first; he won´t let Sherlock off the hook so easily.

Sherlock opens his eyes a few times over the course of the next days, but he is still too dazed to fully wake up. It´s just as well, John muses, since he needs to regain his strength; sleep is the best medicine, after all.

Still exhausted from the clinic, Sherlock takes in only fragments of his surroundings at first. Soft cloth against his skin. Crimson and gold above. A dragon. Silence. John.

His limbs are still aching and are too heavy to move anyway, so he can´t be bothered. He doesn´t need to either; he´s sure John would have told him if they´d have to be somewhere, thus he allows himself to drift off again.

Every time he opens his eyes, surfacing for just a few blinks, everything is the same: softness, crimson, gold, dragon, silence, John. All is well.

Later, being more alert, he can translate the fragments into facts: Sheets made of fine cotton. Flittering sun dancing over bed curtains of richly embroidered brocade, making the colours glow. A reproduction of an old painting, something to do with kings. John dozing in an armchair, suddenly startled, as though having felt Sherlock´s gaze.

He seems confused for a moment, but then he looks at his friend and smiles, getting up and coming over to the bed. Sherlock´s gaze follows him, and the smile never falters: "You look much better," John says, evidently pleased about it.

Sherlock would like to tell him that he only has a vague idea of what has transpired, but that he´s glad that John is there, and he likes the dragon, too. He´s furthermore floating about comfortably and there´s nothing to worry about; except maybe that he hasn´t seen his violin lately, but that will hopefully sort itself out.

He doesn´t tell John any of these things, only manages to smile back, but it doesn´t matter. He can tell him later, after sleeping some more.

He closes his eyes and follows the beckoning into darkness, allows time to become immeasurable. It´s strange, really, how dreams can twist and play with reality, how things seem less absurd. He visits places he has seen before, years ago, also in dreams. There is one face which smiles at him so kindly that he aches for her, realizing that he has lost her long ago.

Other faces he wanted to forget, but apparently hasn´t properly deleted, and while he struggles to get away from them, trying to find _her_ again, Sherlock feels as though he is swimming through murky waters, unsure where he´s headed and sometimes feeling rather upside down. It´s a lot of effort to keep moving, especially since it feels like he isn´t moving at all, and there is no surface to turn to, no way out of these depths.

He takes a ragged, relieved breath upon realizing that he´s not in fact swimming, but lying motionlessly; his limbs feel a bit numb, but the dull ache which was there before has receded somewhat, along with the all-encompassing oppressive heat. He still thinks his head might be wrapped in cotton, but it´s bearable.

John is reading a book; he looks tired, but otherwise just as usual. Sherlock watches him for a while, unaware that he is awake because the transition has been so smooth, and because he is used to seeing John in his dreams.

He blinks; his eyelids grow heavy, and it doesn´t take long for him to drift off again. At one point he becomes aware that some of the faces are still there, but he turns away from them. He wants John and goes to look for him. Unfortunately, he is trapped in a rather large department store and can´t seem to find his way around because the music is too loud and and there are no signs whatsoever. He knows, somehow, that John is never there on Saturdays, and is anxious to find someone who can tell him which day it is.

But then he is distracted again and forgets all about it. And then, maybe now, maybe later, there are sheets made of Egyptian cotton. Candle light illuminating the odd stray threads of his grandma´s beloved bed curtains, producing glints of gold. _The Field of the Cloth of Gold_ , a reproduction of the original oil painting, now bathed in shadows.

John isn´t there. A woman is sitting in the chair next to the bed, and something about her is vaguely familiar. Sherlock´s pulse accelerates as he tries to recall whether John has only been a hallucination, but finds that his brain won´t provide him with the necessary information, the data is muddled and useless.

"Please, calm down," the woman´s voice says, it is soft and has a slight lilt to it. A small hand on his own, tentative yet surprisingly firm. "My name is Surinder. John has gone to lie down for a bit, he will be back soon."

Sherlock stills; so John has really been there. Relief washes over him. He can´t know that John, finally being overwhelmed by exhaustion, has been reluctant to leave his side; he never stays away more than a few hours, just enough to catch up on his sleep.

On the fourth day, Sherlock´s temperature is back to normal.

"What´re y´reading?" Sherlock´s voice, though still thin and scratchy and very soft at that, startles John. He smiles faintly: " _The Elements_. Euclid."

Sherlock makes an approving sound: "Beautiful," he murmurs, and John knows what he means. _The Elements_ do resemble poetry at times; his own copy at home is well-worn.

"How do you feel?" John puts the book aside. It isn´t just a phrase he´s using, he really wants to know. Which is why Sherlock has liked him from the beginning: he is looking beyond the surface, and he isn´t easily fooled, despite his low-functioning brain.

Sherlock is exhausted, and he feels as though he´s been in a fight with at least three golems; he still doesn´t know what happened, and he´s slightly nauseous. John doesn´t need to know this, however. From the looks of him, he´s been worrying enough already.

"Fine," he therefore murmurs, "bit tired."

"Do you remember what happened?"

"No..." Rather uncharacteristically, he doesn´t look as though he´s interested at all, showing John how weakened he really is: he simply doesn´t have the strength to deal with it now.

"I´ll save it for later, then," John says as lightly as he´s capable of. He can see that Sherlock´s already on the verge of dozing off again.

John takes up the book, leafs to a certain page and begins to read to Sherlock, keeping his tone low: "A point is that which has no part. A line is breadthless length. The extremities of a line are points. A straight line is a line which lies evenly with the points on itself..."

Sherlock´s eyes close on their own account as he listens to John´s voice, reading poetry to him which isn´t actually poetry, but which sets his mind at ease all the same.

John reads on until he is certain that Sherlock´s asleep. The doctor has either been reading or dozing, which is really all he wants to do. It keeps him from thinking too much, and since there´ll not be any answers yet, he needs to keep his questions, his anger, his worry and the last remnants of his grief bottled up, otherwise he wouldn´t be able to sit still for even a second.

He thinks about the dinner with Mycroft; they have managed to talk about other things than Sherlock, carefully avoiding the subject in order to keep the peace. John hasn´t seen the older Holmes brother since, assuming that he is busy with running the country: he does have a job, after all.

When Surinder comes to relieve him a few hours later, John goes to have some dinner; miraculously, it seems as though the butler is always waiting for him, and usually, something delicious has been prepared. He really isn´t surprised that Mycroft has trouble with his diet, considering the quality of the food in his house.

After a cup of Espresso, John slowly walks back towards his room, but he doesn´t feel like lying down. He turns and goes exploring instead. The halls make the house seem like a museum rather than a private residence; John´s knowledge of art is limited, but he recognizes a Kandinsky, a Cézanne, the inevitable Turner, a Pissaro.

Most of the rooms are looking as though they have been stored for later, frozen in time: white dust sheets are covering the furniture, producing an air of abandonment. There´s an old wooden rocking horse in one of them, probably the nursery.

A shelf with children´s books, boxes of board games, stuffed animals. They stare at John with a mixture of reproval and unhappiness, and he quickly retreats. Too much sadness, this museum atmosphere of lives long gone.

Later, he lies awake: of course it is different now, it must be. Back when the whole family was living here, it certainly can´t have been so bleak. He desperately hopes it hasn´t, for Sherlock´s sake.

Sherlock remembers asking his grandma about the dragon. His grandma had been his favourite person in the world; she never was in a hurry, she was endlessly patient. He used to snuggle up in her lap while she told him stories or read a book to him, and she always smelled of white flowers, which was nice, and a bit of camphor, which itched in the nose.

He liked being in her room, for it was cosy, and she had the most interesting things: an old gramophone, a box of cufflinks which had belonged to his grandpa and which he liked to play with, and the picture with the dragon in it. Sometimes they looked at it and made up stories, but Sherlock had difficulties with the dragon; it wasn´t a bird but it wasn´t a lizard either, because it had wings and it was flying. And there didn´t seem to be any other dragons around.

"Its egg has been dropped into a bird´s nest," his grandma said, "and it grew up thinking it was a bird. The other birds taught it how to use its wings."

"But grandma, the wings are too small! It wouldn´t get off the ground."

"And yet it is airborne."

"But how _can_ it fly?"

"Maybe it doesn´t know that it can´t."

As a boy, he hadn´t been satisfied with the answer, but now, looking at the picture again, Sherlock thinks that his grandma has been quite wise. All of a sudden he misses her terribly, a feeling he successfully subdues most of the time, if sometimes with difficulty. Mrs Hudson is helping with that, putting a soothing hand on the raw spot without being aware of it.

 

He is still looking at the picture when the door opens; it´s John, who has been to the bathroom. He sits down on the mattress: "How are you feeling?"

"Better. Not as achy anymore." Sherlock´s voice is still hoarse from illness and disuse.

"Your lower back?"

"Fine."

"Sherlock-"

"...Mostly fine."

"Hm." John knows that this is all he´ll get. He catches Sherlock´s gaze, follows it with his own as it strays back to the picture: "I´ve seen this one before."

Sherlock hums agreeingly: "It´s well-known," he says," _The Field of the Cloth of Gold_."

John nods: "Yeah, rings a bell."

He takes Sherlock´s wrist in his hand and checks his pulse in order to hide how elated he suddenly feels. Sherlock´s voice is still as weak as the rest of him, but John has missed their conversations. While he examines him, Sherlock´s eyes slowly roam the canopy of the bed, taking in the details.

"It´s been my grandmother´s room," he says unexpectedly. "I think Mycroft assumed he was doing a good deed by putting me in here."

John pauses: "Have you two been close? You and your grandma, I mean?"

Sherlock, determinedly not looking at his friend, gives a tiny nod: "Yes." The amount of things he doesn´t say tells John about the extent of their relationship. A beloved grandmother. He subdues a smile: it does explain why Sherlock is so protective of Mrs Hudson.

He shrugs, bringing the subject back to Mycroft: "Then he did try to do a good deed."

"Yes," Sherlock concedes after a moment, looking rather surprised at it. "He did." Abruptly, he changes the subject: "When can I get up? I think I´m getting bedsores."

John crosses his arms: "No you aren´t, we have been careful. And I doubt that you can even _sit_ up yet."

Sherlock mumbles something incomprehensible and makes to prop himself up on the uninjured side, but after only a few seconds he begins to shake rather violently, so he stops. His eyes are bright and there is sweat on his forehead when he drops back into the pillow, grimacing.

"You´ll get there," John says quietly, knowing exactly how Sherlock feels. He´s been at this point himself, after all.

Sherlock swallows his pride: "Right now, I need to get to the bathroom," he says. "I have to pee."

John disconnects the IV-bag and helps Sherlock into a dressing gown; he suspects that the clothes Mycroft has provided might have been their father´s. Everything´s a little too wide, but from what John could see in the photographs, his build was similar to Sherlock´s.

John helps him to get to his feet, which is a rather wobbly affair, and cautiously grips his friend around the waist, trying to avoid aggravating his wound; with his other hand, he keeps Sherlock´s arm around his shoulders in place.

The detective is shaking badly again as they reach the bathroom, and John doesn´t like the idea of leaving him alone in there: "You know I´m all for letting you keep your dignity, but I´ll wait right outside in case you need help."

Sherlock´s face takes on a somewhat pained expression: "Don´t worry. It´s already hit rock bottom, considering the past few days," he murmurs, "and numerous times before, in drug rehab."

With these words, he closes the door, leaving John wondering if this really is Sherlock he´s dealing with. It´s a little unsettling that he´s being so... affable.

The whole situation is like being in a twilight zone, a space which doesn´t have any definitive boundaries: he is not entirely himself, and neither is Sherlock, obviously.

He has never seen his friend so calm, which in his current state is good and anticipated, of course, but considering who he is dealing with, also worrying. He has half-expected Sherlock to try and get out of bed in order to be off, but he has not used the word 'boring' once.

John has experienced Sherlock in various states of being unwell, and it has not once been this easy to keep him horizontal, even with a bad concussion. John sighs again; maybe Sherlock has changed. Maybe chasing after who knows how many people in these past months, always on the run and never at ease has shown him that there is more to life than 'the work'. That it actually is possible to slow down and concern yourself with other things, and that it can be very nice to just relax and do nothing, or do something which other people might not consider trivial.

Not for the first time John realizes that they will have a long way to go until things are going to be back to normal. In the meantime, he´ll deal with this altered version and hopefully not live in a state of constant surprise.

When he´s back in bed, Sherlock grips John´s wrist after the doctor has reconnected the IV-bag: "John."

Oh dear. He looks very solemn, and John has an inkling about what´s to come.

"I appreciate all of this," Sherlock says accordingly, "but I want you to know that I don´t expect you to... play nurse. I mean... I´m glad you´re here. But now that I´m obviously not in imminent danger of dying any more, you can... you don´t have to stay all the time. I´ll manage. That Surinder woman-"

"I know I don´t have to," John cuts him short. "Maybe it´s a fetish, ever thought of that?"

Sherlock, after a few seconds of shocked silence, looks at him with a curious expression: as if, for the first time since they met, he can´t read his friend. Then he slowly breaks into a grin: "I hope not."

John fixes him with a rather stern glare, every inch a soldier: "Just so we´re clear."

Sherlock turns serious again, twiddling with the plaster which secures the cannula: "Good." The _I´d rather have you here than anyone else_ hovers unspoken in the silence between them.

"I´m going to get us some tea," John says, turning towards the door. Sherlock gives him a lopsided smile: "I might be asleep by the time you get back." He feels quite drained now.

"Nothing new there," John retorts. His hand already on the handle, he turns back to Sherlock one more time: "Do you think you´ll manage a bit of toast?"

Sherlock, who is looking at the painting again, doesn´t appear to have heard him: he´s never been particularly happy in this house, especially after his grandma had died, but he really likes the dragon. "Maybe we can nick it," he says quietly. "When we go home."

John smiles.

**o o o**

**To Be Continued  
**

**o o o  
**

Feedback welcome!

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "The Field of the Cloth of Gold" is a marvellous painting commemorating a historic event of the same name which has its own Wikipedia article, where you can also see the painting.


	4. Shifting Perspectives

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: Sadly, I do not own Sherlock Holmes or any recognizable character and am not making any profit by using them.
> 
> I am no native English speaker and therefore apologize for any mistakes.
> 
> Thank you all for reading. And now: enjoy!

o o o

**Hazard Control  
**

o o o

Part 4: Shifting Perspectives

o

A few days go by. Sherlock´s strength gradually returns; he´s awake more often and for a little longer.

 

One night John is being woken by Surinder: "Mr Holmes has woken up from a nightmare," she says, obviously upset, "I can´t calm him down."

John scrambles into his dressing gown and follows her into Sherlock´s room. Sherlock is cowering in one corner of the room, wide-eyed and trembling. His hands are batting at something in the air in front of him, and he´s ripped out the cannula from his hand, which is bleeding. Clearly he´s not entirely awake.

John approaches him slowly, not wanting to alarm him further:"Sherlock?" His friend looks at him, but his eyes are unfocused and he is panting: "No..."

"It´s okay," John tries to soothe him, but Sherlock doesn´t appear to hear him: "No," he repeats, "No!"

John manages to catch Sherlock´s hands in his own, ignoring the blood: "Sherlock, it´s okay, you´re dreaming. It´s not real, it´s long over already." Sherlock struggles to free his hands; a tiny part of John is glad that his friend isn´t up to his usual strength at this; he has a mean right hook. But he won´t last long like this, and John would prefer him to be wake up before he collapses. He tries to speak calm but firmly: " Sherlock, look at me! It´s John! You´re safe, no one is going to hurt you."

It takes a moment, but then Sherlock lets out a strangled gasp and stops fighting John. He seems to sag, shrinking back into the corner. "John," he breathes, barely audible. "I was..." he breaks off, exhausted and probably dizzy. John gingerly reinforces his grip around Sherlock´s wrists: "It´s okay," he repeats, "you had a nightmare."

Wordlessly and gently, he pulls Sherlock to his feet. His friends tries to cooperate yet staggers, as he is barely able to stand, but John already has one arm around his midriff to support him, and they somehow make it back to the bed. Sherlock is still trembling.

 

John sits down with him, never letting go of him completely while he turns to the nurse: "Thank you, Surinder, I´ll take it from here." he gives her a smile. Blushing but visibly relieved, she leaves. John turns back to Sherlock, eyeing him sympathetically. The tremor is still there; after a few minutes, it begins to cease gradually.

Sherlock´s gaze is trained on John´s shoulder. "It seemed real," he whispers when he finally raises it to meet John´s.

"I know." John is, after all, no stranger to night terrors. "It´s okay, no need to explain."

Sherlock´s expression is still full of trepidation, but at least he seems steadier now, the tremor has completely subsided.

"Let me have a look at your hand," John says quietly.

It is tremendously reassuring to have John taking care of him, and Sherlock keeps completely still while the doctor cleans and bandages the newly-inflicted wound, even when it stings and especially when John runs his thumb over Sherlock´s skin and says he´s done. He inserts the cannula into the other hand and checks the drip, then he disposes of the bloodied tissues. The stained bed linen and Sherlock´s shirt will have to wait till the morning.

With a glass of water John sits down again: "Here."

Sherlock takes a few sips; his throat indeed feels parched. He can´t recall what exactly he´s been dreaming of, though he remembers trying to shout and being unable to produce any sound, his throat constricting. He was suffocating among dark shapes, and there was an overall sense of menace. Nothing out of the ordinary, he thinks bitterly, he really needs to leave the past months behind. He´s very likely not able to do so until he talks about it. To John, preferably. No one else needs to know; not in detail, anyway.

In an involuntary imitation of The Woman, he has saved his memories on his phone, along with a few pictures. He is going to show all of it John, which is going to be easier than telling him. The talking can start afterwards.

Not yet though. Sherlock doesn´t think he´s ready for all that it entails, and he really wants to wait until he´s recovered enough to at least sit up for more than ten minutes; he will need to organize his thoughts, to enter his mind palace if need be. He´s not up to it yet, as much as he loathes it.

John takes the glass off him: "Do you think you can go back to sleep, or would you like me to give you a mild sedative?"

"No, thank you," Sherlock murmurs, "I´ll be fine."

They both know that it´s not entirely true.

The following nights remain calm, however. Sherlock doesn´t remember his dreams in the mornings, but he´s quite certain there haven´t been any more nightmares. Other than asking whether he´s okay on the morning after, John doesn´t mention it again; there´s no point in blowing it out of proportion.

But the doctor ponders the matter nevertheless; he´s determined not to ask Sherlock about the past months; in due time, Sherlock will tell him of his own volition. John thinks back to the last few days before the fall with him and wonders how deep the scars go.

Sherlock must have napped a little, because all off a sudden he is aware of John sitting next to him, studying him. Sherlock blinks, trying to discern whether John´s expression is worried or something else, because he certainly looks serious as he beholds his friend.

"I´m sorry I called you a machine," he says.

Oh.

"John, don´t." Sherlock doesn´t want him to apologize. If anything, it´s Sherlock who has made him react like that, had to have him believe that Sherlock really didn´t care about their landlady´s fate in order to make John leave.

It seems an eternity ago but Sherlock can still smell the chemical cleanliness of the morgue, can still feel the small ball bounce off his palm, can still feel his own tremor and apprehension which he had hidden from John. He regrets the way it had to be done, but there´s no way to change it now.

"Why not." As ever, John doesn´t give up so easily.

"Because there´s no need. I wanted you to think I was. A machine, I mean."

"But you´re not."

"No. I´m not."

He slowly turns onto his good side, facing away from John; he is feeling like an old man, not at all in sync with his body. On the contrary, it feels alien to him. He´s always been thin – he prefers the word _lean_ \- but strong nevertheless, and now he´s weak as a kitten.

 

John stares at Sherlock´s back; he´s concerned about the lack of impatience in his friend, who has apparently resigned to the fact that he´s bedridden for the time being. As he lies there, bony shoulder drawn up into a defensive hunch, he looks so vulnerable that John wants to hug him. Protecting Sherlock clearly hasn´t worked before, but he´s already made a vow that he will not fail his friend again, so he doesn´t let go on this one.

He clears his throat: "Sherlock?"

Sherlock doesn´t reply.

He is perpetually tired these days, even upon waking, and spends a lot of time just looking at the canopy of the bed or the dragon or the slow drip of the IV-line, allowing his thoughts to stray. Because that is what they do if he isn´t careful; memories, some welcome, others unbidden and unwanted, keep popping up and occupying his mind, and he mostly lets them. He doesn´t have the energy to do much else anyway, so why bother. Part of him is aware that his nightmare has sprung from the same source, but he doesn´t care. Sometimes he lies with his eyes closed, trying to listen into his body, willing it to heal faster.

He´s relieved to be back in London, and he knows he´s finished his task: Moriarty´s web is completely and utterly destroyed. He cannot be glad about it, he has yet to comprehend this new reality: as his subconscious has only just proven, the fact that he doesn´t have to hide anymore hasn´t quite sunken in. He can´t simply stop, though; he needs to talk to some people first. And he really has no idea how.

All these things assail his weary mind at once as soon as he starts thinking about it, and he still doesn´t feel up to it. It tells him that he´s getting better however; he can barely recall the first week, but now that the fever has receded, his mind seems much clearer in comparison to how woolly it was initially.

John however does bother, and he won´t allow Sherlock to withdraw like this. He is too aware that Sherlock is still fragile after all that happened. He´s been rather quiet ever since he has begun to stay up, and John inevitably worries. A complaining, irritable Sherlock he can deal with. A Sherlock who´s quiet even though he´s not thinking about a case is distressing. He needs to know what is going on in his friend´s head.

"Sherlock," John leans over and puts one hand on Sherlock´s shoulder: "Tell me what´s wrong?"

Sherlock remains silent, so John waits.

"I want to go home." Sherlock´s voice is soft when he eventually answers. "I want to feel normal again. This is not me."

John´s heart aches at this; he can imagine exactly how Sherlock feels. His own body had felt alien to him after he had been wounded, and recovery had been a slow process. After nearly dying, all the perspectives shift significantly, leaving the one who´s affected without the familiar boundaries.

"I know," he murmurs, gently squeezing his friend´s shoulder. "I know how that feels. But you´ll get there. Eventually."

Sherlock remains silent, though he draws comfort from John´s words and the hand on his shoulder, leaning into its support ever so slightly. He´s glad John stayed.

John can feel it and is relieved that Sherlock accepts the little he has to offer; he waits for a few more minutes during which neither of them speaks, then says "I was going to take the cannula out today, which will give you much more freedom. Maybe it´s a start."

Since Sherlock´s visibly improving and seems stable, John wants to begin tapering the medication by gradually reducing the dosage, and the IV-feed is no longer needed.

Wordlessly and as slow as before, Sherlock rolls onto his back. John reaches for his hand and disconnects the IV-line. With skilled movements, he then removes the tapes which have been holding the cannula in place, and pulls it out, immediately pressing a piece of clean gauze on the spot and securing it with fresh tape.

 

"Let me have a look at the stitches, while I´m at it." John says after he has disposed of the cannula.

With gentle fingers, he removes the gauze: "Healing nicely," he murmurs when he redresses the wound and pulls Sherlock´s shirt down again.

Sherlock makes a non-committal sound and doesn´t return John´s encouraging smile, but stares at his hand, slowly flexing his fingers, then he gingerly turns onto his side again, huddling in on himself.

Clearly, he´s not doing well, and John is running out of things to say. The common phrases he uses when dealing with his patients simply don´t apply to Sherlock; neither does small-talk. And John is not so sure which topics should be momentarily avoided, or whether they should be avoided at all.

After a while, John gets up and walks around the bed, then sits down on it, pushes off his shoes and stretches out next to his friend, turning onto his side to be able to look at him.

Sherlock seems wary, but at least he doesn´t turn away his gaze. Silently, they behold each other.

John´s familiar, dear features look exactly like Sherlock remembered them while he was away: that serious face which always seems to be hiding a laugh somewhere. John can turn his expression into stone if he wants to, but when he smiles, his humour and kindness are unrivalled. Just looking at him is giving Sherlock a sense of extreme safety.

John is probably the one person in the world who is not intimidated by Sherlock´s scrutiny. His features are tense while his pale eyes slowly wander over the other´s face, taking stock. When he seems satisfied that John hasn´t changed and that the other´s eyes are still twinkling when alighting on the world´s only consulting detective, he relaxes visibly.

"Who cut your hair?" John eventually asks, lifting one hand and gently running his fingers through Sherlock´s curls. They are much shorter now, making him look younger and infinitely more vulnerable.

"I did." Sherlock´s eyes are serious as he says this, for the memories which are connected to those haircuts are not exactly pleasant. "I don´t like it."

John hums: "I do." There´s his smile again, a little mischievously. "I´m glad you didn´t change the colour. You could have gone blond."

The ghost of a smile tugs at Sherlock´s mouth: "Please." But he seems amused, if almost against his will.

"I mean it," John is warming to the topic, "it´d have brought out your light side. In fact, you should try it."

"I´m not going blond," Sherlock says firmly. "Imagine what Mrs Hudson would say."

"Yeah," John grins, "I can see it before me. _Oh, Sherlock, have you completely gone off your rocker now_?"

Even Sherlock is chuckling at this, but he soon turns serious again, a little frown settling on his brow: "John. Would you... could _you_ tell her for me? I know this is a big favour, but... you´re probably the only one who can without giving her a heart attack."

John is not surprised about this rather quick change of topics; he knows that Sherlock´s been thinking of Mrs Hudson a lot during the last days.

"Sure," he says, "I will. I can do it today, in fact; I need to go home and get a change of clothes anyway. I can make a detour."

The frown deepens: "But not yet. It´s still early."

"No," John gives a minute shake of his head. "Not yet."

Sherlock exhales and as he closes his eyes, the frown disappears. John takes in Sherlock´s now slack face and feels relief. He has never found it difficult to talk to the detective and often wondered why others were so incapable of reading him. Of course he could drive everyone up the wall if he intended to, but it partly depended on how people reacted to being provoked. Once Sherlock got past that stage with someone, they were good. And if Sherlock liked someone, he was loyal, even though he showed it in rather unusual ways sometimes.

He had meant it when he had said that he didn´t have friends- John thinks about Baskerville with an involuntary smirk- but that he had one friend. Mrs Hudson doesn´t count as friend, she is more like family. Lestrade´s a... colleague. Has been. Whatever. Not important now.

Part of John undertands why Sherlock doesn´t have more friends, but the other part doesn´t. It took so little to appease him just now, there must be other people who can manage to be close to him, care about him other than from a distance. His grandmother has, apparently, and Mycroft, once. But now Sherlock´s mostly alone. Not that John isn´t glad to occupy the former vacancy, but still he wonders.

Later that day, he knocks on the door of 221B. Why the B is on the front door has always been a mystery to him, since there are also the flats A and C, but he never got round to ask Mrs Hudson. Whom he has called earlier to announce his visit; she seemed fragile lately, and he didn´t want to scare her. So what am I doing here, he asks himself, but right then the door opens.

"John," she breathes, smiling and opening her arms.

He steps into the embrace: "Mrs Hudson. You´re looking well."

She beams at him once they´ve let go of each other: "You, too, my dear. Come on, the kettle´s just boiled."

Arm in arm, they walk inside.

John waits until the tea´s ready and Mrs Hudson has sat down with him. They´ve exchanged what little news there are and John suddenly feels nervous.

"So what have you been up to?" the old lady asks, stirring her tea. "I have been meaning to call you."

"Well... I´ve got to tell you something," he says, "and it´s got to do with what I´ve been up to, incidentally."

She looks at him expectantly, and he feels a lump in his throat. You´re a doctor, he berates himself, you can do this- but somehow, it still is much harder than telling someone about the death of their loved one, or that they have been diagnosed with a life-threatening illness.

Mrs Hudson´s expression turns a little anxious at his obvious struggle for words, so he hurries to begin. He tells her about Mycroft´s car and what happened ever since he agreed to accompany the older Holmes. He leaves out a few details, but apart from that, he basically tells her the whole story.

 

When he finally falls silent, Mrs Hudson sits with both her hands in front of her mouth; her eyes are huge and brimming with tears.

"Are- are you all right?" John asks.

Mrs Hudson´s voice is trembling: "He´s... _not dead_?"

"No, he isn´t." John eyes her attentively, ready to jump in case she faints. But she just sits there, laughing a little hysterically while a few tears are running down her cheeks: "I don´t- I´d never-"

The rest of her is trembling now as well. John watches as she tries to comprehend the news; both of their teas are getting cold, unnoticed.

"That silly boy," Mrs Hudson finally says. "That dear, silly boy." She snuffles, pulling a handkerchief out of her sleeve, and wipes her eyes and her nose. "Can I see him?"

"Now?"

She pauses: "Yes, now. It´s already been too long, hasn´t it?"

"But he´s not expecting-"

At this, Mrs Hudson crosses her arms in front of her chest and sticks out her chin: "Under the given circumstances, I really don´t think I need to be considerate of what he expects."

John purses his lips: "True," he concedes. "All right, let´s go."

To distract himself from the more unwelcome thoughts which have been crowding him, Sherlock has been counting prime numbers until he fell asleep, curled up on his good side. He half-wakes when he hears the door to his room open but doesn´t bother to look, he´s sure it´s John.

He hasn´t seen Mycroft in days, and Surinder is sitting in the armchair next to the bed, having dozed off earlier. Sherlock however notices that there are two different kinds of footfalls, and he strains to listen, making it into a game rather than simply turning around. Whoever has been approaching the bed has stopped, and now nothing happens.

Curiously, Sherlock does begin to turn around; it´s still slow-going and makes him feel like an old man, but at least he´s not restrained by the IV-line anymore. There, frozen to the spot, her handbag hanging from the crook of her arm and her hands covering her mouth (just as before, though Sherlock can´t know that), stands Mrs Hudson. She is making a small mewling sound as her eyes meet his, and then she all but flies towards him and he feels himself pulled into a surprisingly strong hug: "Sherlock!"

Befuddled, he returns the embrace, never minding the handbag which is digging into his hip, fortunately on his good side, and for an unaccounted amount of time, they just cling to each other while Mrs Hudson sobs.

"Don´t snivel, Mrs Hudson," he says affectionately and very softly, eliciting a gasp and a small-fisted shove against his arm: " _Sherlock!_ I have every right to _snivel_ after what you did! And I have half a mind to thump you for good!" But she can see that he´s not well yet, as well as she can feel that he´s beginning to tremble from the strain of keeping himself upright, and lets it go for now.

She gently presses him back down into the pillows, just looking at him while one hand touches his cheek and the other one searches for his: "You´re really here," she whispers, fresh tears threatening to spill.

John has meanwhile explained the situation to Surinder, who has been startled out of her nap to see a small old lady all but _tackling_ her patient, and they both withdraw to give the two some privacy.

Half an hour later, he returns to the room with a tea tray, much to the butler´s chagrin, who´d rather have carried it for him. "But I´m headed there anyway," John said, ending the discussion; he´s probably never going to get used to having servants around.

Mrs Hudson and Sherlock are talking quietly when he enters the room, the old lady is still holding Sherlock´s hand in both of hers.

"...seen it in Hampton Court Palace," Mrs Hudson is saying, "though that´s a long time ago."

Ah. They´re talking about the painting.

John notices at once that Sherlock seems in much better spirits than he has been before; something about him has changed very subtly.

Mrs Hudson looks up at John, smiling, and his heart suddenly feels very light.

"We´ve come to an agreement," she says, cheerfully. "There´ll be no more shooting at walls or body parts in the fridge when you move back in."

Sherlock doesn´t look like he´s voluntarily given his consent to those terms, but he seems amused nevertheless.

John sets the tray down, whistling a little as he pours the tea: things are suddenly not looking so dreary anymore.

**o o o**

**To Be Continued  
**

**o o o  
**

Feedback welcome!

 


	5. Picking up the Pieces

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: Sadly, I do not own Sherlock Holmes or any recognizable character and am not making any profit by using them.
> 
> Author´s notes: Thank you all for reading and giving kudos (and kitmerlot1213 for the lovely comments), it´s much appreciated! Lots of angst in this one.
> 
> Enjoy!

o o o

**Hazard Control  
**

o o o

Part 5: Picking up the Pieces

o

Mycroft watches from the window of his study as Mrs Hudson leaves later that day. John escorts her to the car which is going to take her home, and she pecks him on the cheek before getting in, beaming.

The older Holmes pulls back from the window with a frown; he´d have to have surveillance on Baker Street again, just to be sure. If Mrs Hudson is such a vital part in his brother´s life, he´ll do everything to keep her safe; Sherlock would never forgive him if an oversight on Mycroft´s part would result in her death.

He knows it is very unlikely that some unforeseen killer which was somehow linked to Moriarty would attack the old lady, but Mycroft has seen enough of the world to be aware of its imponderabilities, and that one is indeed better off to never say never. Still frowning, he picks up his phone to make a call.

Mrs Hudson´s visit has helped to rise Sherlock´s spirits considerably, but it has also worn him out. By the time she leaves, promising to come back soon, he lies pale and depleted on the pillows, face nearly as white as the sheet he´s lying on.

"All the emotions worn you out?" John asks teasingly, sitting down on the mattress.

Sherlock manages to produce a glare, but it´s half-hearted. John is right; he hadn´t been aware of how much he has missed Mrs Hudson until she walked through the door. It was like he had always imagined seeing his grandma again, as a kid; he´d been convinced that one day, they´d meet again, and had often tried to envision it, lying awake at night.

With Mrs Hudson came memories of Baker Street, making him wish he could go with her right then, resume his life where he had been forced to let go, undo all the lost time and forget about the past ten months.

Apart from all that, there´s also been a lot of information to process; once more, he has come to realize how widespread the consequences of his fake suicide are, how many people were affected and still are.

Even Angelo, for heaven´s sake; Mrs Hudson told him that Angelo gets teary-eyed whenever they meet, which seems to happen rather frequently due to similar shopping preferences. Sherlock feels a little abashed by the notion.

His eyes are bright though, and John can tell that he´s content, maybe even happy.

"She´ll come back," Sherlock murmurs, already half-asleep. "Thank you, John."

"My pleasure." John smiles at him, watching him succumbing to his exhaustion.

On the following morning, Sherlock tries to sit up. John crosses his arms: "What is this going to be when it´s ready?" he asks.

Sherlock doesn´t answer. His jaw is set in determination as he pushes himself into an upright position. John can see that his friend is trembling from the effort, but Sherlock looks rather triumphantly, and the doctor doesn´t want to spoil this small victory. He reaches behind the detective instead and pulls up his pillows so that Sherlock can lean against them. He is very obviously relieved once his back is supported, but he still looks proud.

John smiles: "It seems Mrs Hudson has gone to Hogwarts, after all."

Sherlock frowned: "What?"

"Never mind. How´s your wrist doing?"

Sherlock lifts his arm and gingerly flexes the joint; it´s not as tender anymore, and it doesn´t hurt when John, after removing the bandage, takes Sherlock´s arm in his left hand and gently bends Sherlock´s hand back and forth with his own.

"Okay," he says, nodding, "you can cross that one off the list."

Sherlock flexes his fingers: "It feels different."

"That´s because it´s been immobile for so long. The muscle strength is reduced because they haven´t been stimulated, and the tendons are hardened."

He rubs his hands, deciding that he can broach the news as well now that Sherlock´s in good spirits: "By the way: we´re going to start exercising soon."

"For my arm?"

"For you whole body."

Sherlock frowns: "Why?"

"In order to keep your muscles exercised and prevent your body from stiffening up, so to speak."

"That´s ridiculous, I don´t need it! I haven´t been here for _that_ long!" Sherlock looks outraged.

John knew this wouldn´t be easy. He raises one eyebrow: "You´ve been here for twelve days, Sherlock, and I don´t need to tell you how much you are not up to your usual strength." He avoids using the word _weakened_ , and he doesn´t have to. Sherlock is no fool, he knows what his friend means. Walking to the bathroom feels like dragging deadweight around, even though he is aware that he has become painfully thin; his body has rarely felt so alien to him.

 

And now he´s sitting up all right, but he couldn´t hold up his head for more than a minute, and John has of course noticed how Sherlock has inconspicuously slid down a little in order to be able to lean against the headboard.

"I don´t need physiotherapy," he repeats, stubbornly.

"It´s not exactly- well, doesn´t matter what you call it. Make a fist."

"Excuse me?"

"Make a fist, strongly, as if you were going to punch someone. See if your hand is in its usual shape."

Sherlock looks at his hand, unwilling to concede that he is most likely not able to do that yet, seeing as the wrist has largely been immobilized for nearly two weeks now. Damn.

John, who´s been watching the struggle on Sherlock´s features, sighs: "I am not going to argue with you. You are getting it whether you want to or not. We need to improve your muscle strength, otherwise it will be much more difficult to get you back on your feet. It´s not that big of a deal, really."

Sherlock huffs, but doesn´t say anything.

John looks at him and realizes that he´s glad about Sherlock´s resistance; it´s what he´d have expected. And, knowing his friend, he can see that the battle is won already, though the detective would never admit it.

Now it´s John who´s feeling exhausted, which really is no surprise considering how badly he slept the last night.

They are silent for a while. Sherlock´s glare softens as he notices that something´s off. John keeps his gaze trained on him, absent-mindedly and tense at once.

"Are you all right?" he asks, startling the doctor out of his thoughts.

"Yeah," John says, a little too quickly to be convincing. "Fine. Everything´s fine."

"You´re lying."

John shakes his head, looking down on his shoes before meeting Sherlock´s gaze again: "Okay. Yes. I´m lying."

Sherlock narrows his eyes: "What´s wrong?"

John considers him for a while, wondering whether he should tell Sherlock, but then decides that he can risk it. "Had nightmares last night," he says. "I think going back to Baker Street triggered it. You know, all the emotions." The last bit is meant as a joke, but Sherlock ignores it: "You dreamed about me." he states calmly.

John runs a hand over his face and is surprised that it´s actually shaking. He hasn´t had nightmares about Sherlock ever since all of this happened, and now that his friend is here with him, alive and relatively well, he shouldn´t be as affected by them as he is. But the fact is that he has woken up drenched in sweat once more, shaking, gasping and horrified, and it has taken him far too long to separate dream from reality.

"Yes," he murmurs, wearily, "about you."

Sherlock regards him with a strange expression: curiosity, sympathy and sadness all mixed together. His hand finds John´s, in a reverse gesture of support while he waits for the other to continue.

Before the Reichenbach case, he had not approved of too much physical contact, but he has since found out how much comfort it could convey, provided it was John, of course. Sherlock´s thoughts briefly dwell on the fact how familiar John´s hand seems, his skin, the manner of his touch.

"After what happened..." John finally says, in a low voice, keeping his gaze trained on the marquetry inlays of the headboard, "I couldn´t get rid of the pictures. I couldn´t forget how it looked, seeing you fall... seeing you lying there, like that-" his voice breaks. He hides his face behind his free hand for a moment, and Sherlock feels terribly guilty at the amount of hurt.

Since he has faked his suicide, he has learned more about emotions than he´d ever expected, and one thing was how strongly people could grieve. John was still doing it, he realized, hadn´t been able to achieve some kind of closure yet. It was no surprise, really, since John had been too busy with caring for Sherlock: he very likely hadn´t processed everything yet.

"That´s the one thing I´ve asked myself over and over again," John continues, a tremor in his voice; he knows that he had intended to wait with talking about the matter, has after all told Sherlock so when he apologized right on the first day, but now the words all but tumble out of him:"Whether you really had to do it like that. Forcing me to watch it. I had to relive the scene over and over again, and believe me, in all my years of medical practice, and that includes service, I´ve never seen anything so horrible. Your eyes, just... staring, and all the blood, and knowing how terribly scary it must have been for you, and they wouldn´t let me touch you-" he breaks off again, unable to carry on. Tears are running down his cheeks and he wipes them away with his free hand, repeatedly, avoiding to look at his friend.

"I´m sorry," John manages to say when he has regained sufficient control over his voice. "I didn´t mean to-" he falls silent when he sees Sherlock´s face. He´s pale, looking distraught: "Could you hand me my phone?" he says barely audible, clearing his throat.

John reaches over to the nightstand and fishes the phone out of the drawer, giving it to Sherlock, who hopes that the battery hasn´t died. But the phone switches on without a problem, and to his relief, there´s still some power left.

Sherlock lets go of John´s hand which he was still holding and selects a folder called 'notes': "Listen to this," he says, hoarsely. "All of it. I saved it for you."

John looks at the phone, then at Sherlock and back at the phone: "What-"

"Please." Sherlock looks as though he is going to drop the phone if John doesn´t take it, he suddenly seems drained.

John accepts the gadget, torn between dread and anticipation: "O-okay." He stares at it, slowly getting to his feet: "I´ll- I´ll take this to my room. Do you need anything?"

"No." Sherlock stares on his hands, avoiding John´s gaze. He is exhausted and desperately wants to lie down again, to close his eyes.

John nods: "Okay... I´ll..." he gestures towards the door, then quietly leaves the room.

The folder 'notes' turns out to contain several recorded sound files, consecutively numbered but otherwise unnamed. John sits down heavily in an armchair and opens the first file.

 _John_ , Sherlock´s voice says, a little tinny and unusually subdued. _This isn´t how I wanted it to happen. In fact, I didn´t want this to happen at all. If anything, I should have been one step ahead of Moriarty, should have been able to take him down before all of this managed to... destroy our lives. I say 'our' because I´ve been watching you, and I know you´re not doing well._

There was a considerable pause before Sherlock continued: _I´m so sorry, John. It´s hard to watch how you´re grieving, and I would like nothing better than to reveal the truth to you. But it would be dangerous, and I can´t put your life at risk. Not this time._

_... I failed, John, and now I need to put this right._

John swallows. He feels numb, confounded: this is as much a glimpse into Sherlock´s soul as he is ever going to get, and it takes him straight back to the first day after the alleged suicide. It had felt similar, though infinitely worse.

He had sat on a bench in Regent´s Park, unable to bear the emptiness of the Baker Street flat, and the words of a young woman reeled around in his mind; he had met her before Moriarty had revealed himself, when the world had still been turning. He couldn´t stop it, could only feel bitter pains at the irony as he heard Andrew West´s fiancé in his head: "He was a good man. He was _my_ good man."

Back then, he had only been able to offer his condolences, but after Sherlock´s fall, he had known exactly how she had felt.

With shaking fingers, he opens the second file.

John listens to one file after another; they are of varying lengths and quality. Sometimes Sherlock has named the date on which he recorded them, sometimes not. It´s not always as coherent and articulate as the first file, sometimes Sherlock just seemed to have felt the need to speak to his friend no matter what.

One file contains only a few words, interspersed with coughs: _I´m in Switzerland now, but it seems... an eternity away from home._ – _I had to go so far out of my way lately_... _I haven´t been able to check on you. I hope you´re all right._ A longer pause, then, barely audible _: Merry Christmas, John._

John has to stop listening at times, feeling too shaken to be able to concentrate properly, and he comes to realize that he has virtually no idea what Sherlock has actually gone through.

"Taking down Moriarty´s web" sounded innocuously, undefined, rather like a sport or something one could do from an office. And yet it wasn´t, it had cost Sherlock a great deal. He could have died doing it. He has died.

After he´s gone through all of them, John doesn´t return to Sherlock´s room immediately; he can´t. He´s too agitated, needs to process what he´s just heard, what he´s just _learned_.

He wanders through the house until he ends up in the nursery again where he sits down on a cushioned window seat, staring absently at the rocking horse. Sherlock´s voice is still echoing in his head, fragments from the different files which reel around in his mind.

It´s after midnight when John finally emerges from his hiding place. The house is dark and silent, and he automatically tries to move soundlessly as he walks to Sherlock´s room. He hesitates, unsure whether he´d prefer it if Sherlock was awake or sleeping, then quietly enters.

It´s dark and silent as well; they are no longer keeping vigil at night.

 

John waits until his eyes have adapted to the darkness, then pads over to the bed. Sherlock seems asleep, lying on his back. His head is tilted towards John, just like on that first night, but his face is relaxed now, its sharp edges emphasized by the shadows of the moonlight.

John slowly and cautiously sits down on the mattress, looking at his friend. Always good for a surprise, he thinks fondly, and suddenly feels like weeping. He wishes he could make it up to Sherlock, give him back the past ten months.

It´s not that they weren´t difficult for John either, God knows they weren´t, but he now understands a lot more about Sherlock´s situation, and he finds that this knowledge eases a pressure in his chest which he hadn´t even noticed had been there ever since Mycroft told him the truth: the feeling of being left out and being betrayed. The disappointment of not having been needed.

Tentatively, he reaches out and puts his hand on the side of Sherlock´s face, where it rests for a moment before moving a little, stroking through the curls of dark hair. "Dear Sherlock," he whispers, "dear, stupid, sodding, brave, brilliant Sherlock."

His friend makes a small sound, almost as in agreement, and John freezes. After a second or two, however, Sherlock exhales deeply and lies motionless again, still fast asleep.

John sits with him for an unaccounted amount of time, needing the visual now that he´s had the audio.

On the following morning, Sherlock awakes feeling uneasy. John. He didn´t come back on the previous night, and Sherlock must have fallen asleep at one point while waiting for him. He has never needed this much sleep, he thinks tiredly, it´s annoying.

His thoughts return to John: during the past days he has given the impression that he is mostly unshakable. Seeing him so upset and vulnerable like on the previous day gives Sherlock a pang of concern. Maybe John has reached a point where he needs a break from all this. Maybe he has left.

Uneasiness makes itself known in Sherlock´s mind. He still has difficulties to organize his thoughts; maybe it has been the wrong time to give John his phone.

He hasn´t opened his eyes yet when something registers in his mind. Slowly, he turns onto his side and discovers that John is there, lying on the empty side of the bed just as he has done just recently, before he´d gone to see Mrs Hudson.

This time, John is fast asleep, fully dressed and lying on his side with his back to Sherlock. Who decides to take it as a good sign that John has come to him in the middle of the night and stayed; the uneasiness turns into relief.

Sherlock ponders his friend further while he watches him. John has lost weight during the past months, emphasizing the lines on his face. His hair is as short as ever, with maybe a little more grey than before. Apart from that, he seems unchanged: the same kind smile. The same deadpan humour. The same voice.

He´s read a few more times to Sherlock during the previous days, not only from the _Elements_ , but also from magazines and newspapers. Not everything of it interested Sherlock, but that didn´t matter; he was content listening to John´s voice, which more than once lulled him into sleep.

John doesn´t stir for a long time, and Sherlock regrets having to get up at one point nevertheless, because he needs to pee. He slowly and arduously sits up and gets to his feet. He nearly topples over and falls back onto the bed, but he manages to keep his balance. Walking is a tottery affair indeed, and the dreadful shaking and dizziness inevitable set in after only a few wobbly steps. Sherlock grits his teeth; he is going to do this.

The last two meters seem impossible however, and he suddenly finds himself on his hands and knees, but in the end, he manages to get to the bathroom.

When John wakes up, bright sunlight filters in through the curtains. He blinks as he recalls where he is, and quickly turns around, but the bed is empty. John is awake at once, scrambling to his feet: "Sherlock!"

It is silent, but then he hears his friend´s voice from the bathroom: "I´m here." He sounds annoyed.

Upon opening the bathroom door, John is greeted with the sight of Sherlock sitting on the floor, leaning against the tub and looking positively glumly.

"Sherlock- what happened?"

"I am resting," Sherlock replies testily. "As soon as I´m done, I am going to get back into bed."

"All right. Up with you..." John helps Sherlock to his feet and supports him: "Resting, my arse," he grumbles as they make their way back to the bed. Sherlock doesn´t reply.

"This is why you need exercises," John says two minutes later.

"I don´t need physiotherapy."

"Yes, you do."

"I could simply get up and walk a few steps every day."

"That is what you´ll do additionally, once I deem it appropriate. It will however be a lot easier if you exercise first."

"I´m not going to run a marathon, am I?"

"No."

"So why do I have to exercise first? I have been walking before, John."

"Do we really need to go through this again? Why not just trust my professional opinion and do as I say?"

"Because I don´t need it."

"Which is precisely why you ended up in a heap on the floor just now, I presume."

Sherlock glares at John defiantly.

John has an inkling where this is coming from and sits down on the bed: "It doesn´t mean you´re weak, Sherlock. But your body has its limits, and being driven to and beyond those has rendered you devoid of your usual energy. You need to refuel, and that includes maintenance of your transport."

He hoped that this might appeal to Sherlock rather than trying to talk some sense into him in more medical terms.

Sherlock huffs, but remains silent. This isn´t what he wants to talk about, and he knows that John is aware of it.

John however wants to freshen up first, leaving the room to take a shower.

He comes back twenty minutes later and finds that the butler has brought them breakfast in the meantime, all the plates covered by silver domes to keep the food warm. Sherlock is sitting up and leaning against the pillows again, but he hasn´t touched the tray yet, so John pours them tea and begins to spread butter on a piece of toast, glad to have something to do. He has no idea how to broach the subject.

Sherlock clearly waits for him to say something though, so John eventually puts the toast and knife down: "I wish I could have been there with you." he says, his voice soft. "If only for moral support." He seeks Sherlock´s gaze: "You sounded so terribly lonely."

Sherlock´s expression is unfathomable for a moment, then his eyes widen. He quickly looks down on his lap, but John has seen how unhappy he just looked, how very young and vulnerable once more.

"I missed you," he says, chokedly, "as you will undoubtedly have deduced from what you heard." He doesn´t seem to recall that he has in fact told John so before, but then, that´s hardly a surprise given the state he was in when he did.

John gets up from his chair and sits down next to Sherlock, nudging him to budge over a little. "I know," he says, lying one hand on his friend´s jaw and gently forcing him to look up, and there´s so much affection and compassion in his eyes that Sherlock finds it hard not to fidget, because he doesn´t know how to deal with it.

But this is John whom he trusts and values, the only person in the world who is allowed to breach Sherlock´s boundaries, so Sherlock can restrain himself from looking away this time, and John´s warm hand on his skin feels comforting, reassuring. Thank God John is good at these things.

But not looking away means having to process, and that in turn means that Sherlock feels unexpectedly shaky from one moment to the other, and his throat constricts even more. But then there are arms around him, John´s arms who are gently pulling him close, and Sherlock, after one or two endless seconds of delayed comprehension, timidly brings up his own arms to return the embrace.

John´s familiar scent washes over him, and he feels like the floodgates have been opened. He doesn´t cry, because he hardly ever does, but this is the closest he´ll get, and all of a sudden, he´s glad that John´s got him.

John doesn´t cry either, he´s done with that for the time being, but he doesn´t think he can let go again so soon.

The feeling is reprocicated; they hold on to each other for a long time, drawing strength from the other´s solid presence, letting a good amount of the fear and grief and loneliness of the past months drain away.

"Take me with you the next time," John says when they do eventually let go, long after their teas have turned cold and Sherlock has begun to tremble from the exertion.

"There won´t be a next time," Sherlock replies, sounding absolutely confident.

 

**o o o**

**To Be Continued  
**

**o o o  
**

Feedback welcome!

**o**


	6. Lions, and Tigers, and Bears

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: Sadly, I do not own Sherlock Holmes or any recognizable character and am not making any profit by using them.
> 
> Author´s notes: Thank you all so much for reading and of course to those who gave feedback, it´s highly appreciated!
> 
> Enjoy!

o o o

**Hazard Control  
**

o o o

Part 6: Lions, and Tigers, and Bears

o

 

"I´m not made of glass," Sherlock says, a week later.

"I know," John replies calmly. _You do look it, though_ , he adds in the privacy of his mind, contemplating for a moment just how emaciated Sherlock is. He has been underweight before, John is certain about that, but one can´t describe him as lean anymore; he rather looks gaunt.

They have started on what Sherlock stubbornly calls physiotherapy, and as much as he was against it at first, finding it awkward to have someone else manipulating his limbs, or having to do exercises after precise instructions, he meanwhile has gotten eager and impatient, and John has to stop him from overexerting himself.

"We´ve been walking all the way down the hall and back already," John says. "It´s enough for now."

"Gallery."

"Fine. We´ve been walking down the _gallery_. It´s still enough. We´ve talked about your bodily limits, haven´t we?"

"But I´m feeling fine, I´m not exhausted in the least. Why can´t walk some more?"

"We´re following a schedule," John says, "as you are well aware of." _And you were trembling by the time we were done, even though you tried to hide it_.

"This way, it´s going to take ages!" Frustratedly, Sherlock crosses his arms in front of his chest. "Why can´t I do more exercises?"

"Because we need to slowly build up your strength."

"Yes, _too_ slow."

"Fine." John imitates Sherlock´s gesture. He is tired of having the same debate over and over again. "Do it then. Get up and walk all you want, if you really think you´re up to it. I´m not stopping you."

Sherlock watches him with narrowed eyes, then nods, getting up with measured movements. "I will, because I can," he announces, and slowly makes his way to the door. John watches him with pursed lips, shaking his head. Well, at least he can stop worrying about Sherlock being too affable.

Sherlock slowly walks down the gallery. He doesn´t like it when John disagrees with him, but his friend clearly is worrying too much. The exercises he has been forcing upon Sherlock admittedly have been surprisingly effective; at first, he thought his legs would never stop shaking again, but even on the second day he could feel that his muscles were responding, and it was glorious. Of course, it was also wearisome, but he kept that to himself. He isn´t one to shy back from a challenge, and now he is eager for progress.

The gallery´s advantage is the banister which runs along its length, and which is very appropriate to support oneself on. Sherlock´s gaze drifts over the paintings as he passes them; they are too familiar to keep his interest. He has spent far too much time on his own in this house, it is all too painstakingly familiar, yet not in a fond way. He doesn´t like to come back and usually avoids it if he can.

He has reached the door at the end and, for a moment, is tempted to go in. It´s his father´s study, a rather small room with dark furniture. Scary if one was six years old, scarier even if one had been summoned because of whichever kind of mischief one had been accused of, and when Father was sitting behind his desk with his brows furrowed and a displeased expression on his stern face.

 

Sherlock´s hand hovers over the handle; his father isn´t there. And even if he was- Sherlock isn´t six years old anymore, after all. He bites his lip; nevertheless, he can´t bring himself to go in, not even after all this time. He knows it is ridiculous, yet his body refuses to move.

His knees feel a little weak, so he turns to his right and enters the nursery instead. He sits down in the window seat, relieved to get off his feet and that John isn´t there to witness it, and looks around.

He wonders whether he should feel something, should try to conjure up some sentimental recollection of the time spent in here, but finds that the room doesn´t bear any of those. It´s simply a room full of toys. The few memories from his childhood he has adjudged worthy to be kept mostly have to do with his grandmother, or have other settings, like the stables or his favourite climbing tree out in the grounds. He hasn´t been up that tree for years, but he´s never forgotten how it felt. Especially how safe, because the foliage had been dense enough to hide him from the view of others. Not even Mycroft had known about it for a long time.

He slowly gets to his feet again, walking over to the shelf. He notices that there´s no dust, which also applies to the rest of the room.

Sherlock smirks; apparently, Mycroft isn´t as unsusceptible to sentiment as he claims. The detective´s eyes roam over the things: the books; he´s read them all, as a boy, but some of them he can´t remember at all, probably weren´t very interesting. The board games, mostly boring; the stuffed animals. He didn´t want all those, he had one favourite bear which had been his partner in mischief, and that had been enough for him.

That bear now bides his time in Sherlock´s wardrobe in Baker Street- or had been, depending on what had been done with his wardrobe and other possessions. Another topic they hadn´t touched yet. Anyway, Mycroft should give this stuff to charity, Sherlock thinks, there are after all enough children out there who´d want it. He turns back towards the door but finds that his legs are trembling again, so he decides to wait some more.

It is cold in the room, since it isn´t being heated, and Sherlock wraps his arms around his torso. He is wearing a sweater over his long-sleeved shirt and pyjama pants; it is made of fine, navy blue lambswool and belonged to his father. It is rather long and of a heavy quality, clearly also meant for wearing outside on moderately cold days, with broad cuffs and a shawl neck that can be closed with a button.

Sherlock isn´t used to wearing pullovers or cardigans since he usually prefers suits, but he likes this one. He can´t remember his father in it, and it doesn´t show any signs of wear; maybe he has never worn it. Which is even better, in his opinion.

The cold finally chases Sherlock back. It´s only turned April, and it has been exceptionally cold outside during the last few days, it even snowed a little.

Slowly he walks back, deliberately refraining from supporting himself on the banister; he can do this, he reminds himself, and John really is far too worried. His legs are still trembling for some reason, but he doesn´t feel dizzy, which is good.

 

When he reaches the door to his room, he hesitates, and, after a moment of consideration, turns around again. He doesn´t look at the paintings this time, he is focused entirely on the door of his father´s study. He´s halfway there when his knees threaten to give out, so he pauses for a moment, leaning against the wall and willing his body to stop misbehaving. He walks on with his hand on the banister and doesn´t hesitate in front of the door this time. He feels something akin to relief when he presses the handle and finds that it´s not locked.

His father´s not there. Sherlock closes the door behind him and walks around the desk, sitting down in the leather swivel chair. The air is as cold as in the nursery, but the chill Sherlock feels creeping down his spine belongs to the atmosphere which is still present, as though the man who brought it about in the first place has never left.

People who haven´t known Sherlock´s father would probably find it hard to believe that he had been so scary. Stern, maybe, austere to a certain degree, but never violent. Never laid a hand on his wife or children.

Sherlock stares at the polished surface of the desk, the wood shimmering like velvet even now in the grey light of a rainy afternoon. Cruelty didn´t necessarily have to do with bodily violence, he thinks. And his father hasn´t been a nice man. He hasn´t been the kind of father you´d want to comfort you after waking from a nightmare, or one whom you could share secrets with, like the hiding-place in the tree. He had been distant and cold, and he knew how to choose words which stung if he felt inclined to do so. He had been hard to please, and Sherlock had not managed it as well as Mycroft, who had been better at disciplining himself. Well, as long as it didn´t concern food.

Sherlock had never been able to prove himself worthy to his father, neither as a small boy nor when he grew older. He has only been good at disappointing the people around him, he thinks.

Out of a whim and as a means to distract him from these thoughts, he pulls open the large drawer in the middle. Contrary to his expectations, it´s not empty, and he is surprised to find rather personal things in it: a leatherbound chequebook, letters, snapshots.

He looks at those: there is a picture of Mummy, smiling into the camera, shielding her eyes against the sun with one hand; she looks incredibly young and pretty. Some pictures show people Sherlock doesn´t recognize and who might or might not be family members; a little boy, unmistakably Mycroft, sitting in the bathtub and biting onto a flannel. Sherlock is struck by a sense of fondness that this one conveys. It´s a sentimental picture, and for a moment he wonders how it´s gotten here, before he continues to leaf through the stack.

John is waiting for Sherlock to come back. He´s been reading the newspaper, which took about half an hour, but now there´s still no sign of his friend, even though he thought he´d heard steps at one point.

After an hour has gone by, a growing feeling of uneasiness makes John get up to go and investigate. The gallery is empty. He looks into the nursery, but it´s empty as well. Sherlock can´t have gone far, he thinks, and begins to open other doors, as far as they aren´t locked, but to no avail.

John is about to shout for Sherlock when his gaze falls onto the door at the end of the gallery. He hasn´t tried that one yet, has he? With a few swift strides which actually resemble more of a run, John approaches it.

Sherlock flinches when the door is being pushed open. He´s been lost in thought, curled up in the big chair with his legs drawn to his chest, and the expression on John´s face confirms that this spacing out is evident on his own: what looked like the beginning of a reprimand now turns into concern. "Are you all right?" the doctor asks, and his frown deepens.

Sherlock nods slowly: "Of course I am," he murmurs, sounding much like his old self.

John purses his lips again, a very clear sign of annoyance.

Sherlock doesn´t want to continue their stupid squabbling, however, especially not in this room. Even now, he needs an ally in here, so he nods towards the pictures, which are still lying on the desk: "I found these."

John circles the desk and comes to stand next to him, putting one hand on Sherlock´s shoulder in what looks like a casual gesture, but Sherlock knows that it´s his friend´s way of checking on him.

John leans forward and looks at the pictures; he smiles at the one of Mycroft in the tub. Others show dogs, cars, unknown people, and then there´s one with Sherlock in it. Again, he´s quite young, maybe about six years, and is sitting on a sturdy yet handsome pony. Next to him, on what John would describe as a proper-sized horse, if not as large as the third one in the picture, is Mycroft, and to his left, their father. None of them smiles. While Mycroft and his father look dignified, Sherlock seems to scowl at the camera.

John smirks: "I didn´t know you could ride," he says.

Sherlock huffs, but less indignantly than usual: "Haven´t been on horseback for a long time," he replies.

"Is this your pony?"

"No," he says rather quickly. "That picture was taken during a holiday in Scotland."

"Hell, I didn´t know _Mycroft_ could ride," John murmurs, looking at the picture again, eliciting an amused snort from Sherlock.

"The horses certainly didn´t thank him," he mutters.

John glances around the room: "Was this your father´s study then?"

"Yes." Sherlock tightens his arms around his knees. "Lions, and tigers, and bears." His voice is low, and John is surprised by what Sherlock is revealing with this short sentence.

"That bad, huh?" he asks, equally soft.

"Hm," Sherlock rests his chin on his knees, "he wasn´t a very nice man." He sounds vague, but John isn´t for one second fooled into thinking that Sherlock isn´t affected by it. His gaze strays back to the picture; Mr Holmes certainly didn´t look like someone to cross.

"And your mum?"

Sherlock shrugs: "She was distant. She could be very... endearing, but she simply wasn´t made for child-rearing. She didn´t like the messy aspects of it."

John sighs: "I´m sorry to hear that." His hand squeezes Sherlock´s shoulder for a moment. "A lot of people aren´t, but often discover it too late. And it´s usually the children who´re suffering from it."

Sherlock peers up at him; John´s tone is serious, and he clearly doesn´t only repeat a commonplace from his practice. He has been thinking about it, meaning he has probably seen other family pictures and drawn his own conclusions.

 

Sherlock remains silent. He shouldn´t have come into this room, and it´s bearing down on him. At least John´s there now, which somehow makes it easier to breathe in here. He wishes John had been here with him during all the times his father had summoned him. John means courage, someone to lean on. He would probably have stood up to Mr Holmes.

"Shall we go back?" John asks after a moment.

Sherlock nods, and John quickly assembles the photos to put them back into the still open drawer. He notices something else, however, and gestures towards it: "May I?"

"What is it?" Sherlock´s interested and cranes his neck so he can watch.

John pulls out a cardboard folder which contains children´s drawings, some in watercolour, others in crayon, all of them signed 'Mycroft Holmes'. The last sheet however, looking as though it´s been crumpled into a ball and then smoothed out again, doesn´t show a painting; there are words written on it, consisting of spidery, slightly unsteady letters, carefully drawn.

SHERLOK, it says, MYCROFT, GRANMA, PIGLIT, OWEL, ~~RABBITT~~ , RABITT.

Another hand, clearly adult, has added "Sherlock, aged 4" on the bottom of the sheet. John silently shows it to his friend, who frowns. His expression gradually softens as he looks at the paper, though, then he clears his throat: "Mycroft´s name is the only one without any mistakes in it," he says softly, "let´s hope he hasn´t seen this."

" _We_ have found it," John points out, "do you honestly think he has never looked into this drawer?"

Sherlock huffs, handing the sheet back to John: "He doesn´t _do_ sentiment."

"No, but maybe he does curiosity."

Sherlock hums and unfolds himself to get up. He´s secretly glad that John has come looking for him, because his knees now feel like jelly. As if he´s run a thousand miles. He´d never admit it, of course, but it seems that John was right, once again. Sherlock isn´t up to too much yet.

Slowly, they walk back to his room. Pride prevents the detective to hold on to the banister, and he is utterly relieved when they reach the door. He makes a beeline for the sofa, which is situated at the far wall in the other part of the room, together with two armchairs and a table. Ever since he´s begun to stay up, Sherlock is avoiding the bed during daytime, not wanting to feel in need of constant care anymore.

Which is fine, because the room is more like a suite, really; considering that Sherlock´s grandmother lived here, it makes sense, John thinks as he watches his friend all but collapse onto the soft cushions. He curls up on his side and wraps his arms around himself. There´s a fire burning in the fireplace, but Sherlock´s always feeling cold these days, which is not at all surprising due to the lack of body fat.

John sits down next to him, casually throwing a blanket over Sherlock´s legs: "Mrs Hudson called. She´ll come by tomorrow."

Sherlock shifts around a little until his cold feet are pressed against John´s warm leg, and pulls the blanket up over him, but he doesn´t reply. John wonders what exactly has changed that has made Sherlock so much more tolerable of bodily contact; he usually avoided it if he could, now he not only accepts it, but often seeks it of his own account. Not that John minds, but he is still not used to this behaviour.

"Want me to read something to you?" he asks, because Sherlock seems to be brooding.

 

"I always liked horses," Sherlock says abruptly.

John knows that his friend has listened to him and has heard the bit about Mrs Hudson, but apparently the need to talk about his father a little more is prevailing. This is Sherlock´s way of introducing the topic. John is used to his friend taking the ballistic approach, so he responds accordingly: "Did you have horses, here on the grounds?"

"We did when I was little." Sherlock says, "My father was an accomplished equestrian. Also loved the hunt." He wrinkles his nose. "Anyway, he was suffering from rheumatism, which was why he had to give up riding on a regular basis when I was about nine. He sold the horses and had the stables converted into a garage."

"Must have been hard for him," John says.

Sherlock huffs, and John can feels his toes digging into his leg for a moment, as his friend tenses. "It made him impatient," he says in a low voice. "More so than before. He could be very unpleasant when he had one of his moods. Or when he was in pain." He doesn´t look at John, who, again, is surprised that Sherlock tells him all this.

"I did learn how to ride on a pony called Jupiter," Sherlock continues, after a while.

"Was he yours?"

"He had been Mycroft´s," Sherlock replies. "Who had outgrown him. But I pretended that he was mine." He fiddles with the hem of the blanket, a habit which John has seen before: "I liked to be with him when there was no one else in the stables. It was quiet and warm and..." he hesitates. "Well, I quite liked the scents. Straw, hay... horse. Horses smell rather good." He falls silent. Maybe he has exceeded his limit of personal revelations for one day.

John however is curious: "And he was sold along with the others?"

"Yes."

Subdueing a sigh, John finds Sherlock´s foot and squeezes it for a moment. Sherlock has nearly disappeared under the blanket, clearly not wanting to be seen right now. It´s okay, John thinks, he can give his friend this moment. He can actually use it himself, processing all the new information. They stay silent for quite a while, watching the sky outside turn darker. A few stray snowflakes come tumbling down, promising further coldness.

It´s nearly dark when John turns on the lamp on the table next to the sofa; Sherlock has dozed off, still mostly hidden by the blanket. John slowly gets up and tucks the blanket under his friend´s feet; he stirs, but doesn´t open his eyes. Quietly, John draws the curtains close, then he leaves the room.

He finds Mycroft in the library, as if the older Holmes has been expecting him.

"John," he says, getting up from his chair, seemingly delighted to see the doctor. "Is everything all right?"

"Yes, everything´s fine." John slowly walks into the room, not quite sure whether he wants to be here or not.

"Care for a snifter of Brandy?" Mycroft asks, nodding towards his own glass on a small reading table, situated in front of the fireplace.

"Sure, why not." John sits down in the other armchair. Mycroft hands him a tumbler and sits down again.

"So how´s my brother doing?" he asks, swirling the liquid in his glass and watching it catching the reflection of the fire,"I gather he´s making progress?"

"He´s getting there," John says. He looks around the room: "Impressive, all these books."

Mycroft watches him, waiting.

"Has your father been collecting them?" John does his best to sound inconspicuous, but of course, Mycroft isn´t easily fooled.

"My grandfather started it," he replies, "but you´re not here to talk about books."

John smiles into his glass: "No. No, I´m not."

Mycroft sets his own drink down and steeples his hands, much like Sherlock uses to do.

"My brother was a lovely little boy," he says, "everybody was enchanted by him. But of course, he wasn´t easily handled. He loved to go exploring, and he was always quickly distracted by things. Caterpillars were his favourite animals for a time. He could stay perfectly still and watch whatever it was that had caught his attention for an unlimited amount of time, forgetting everything else in the process. Naturally, that often caused inconveniences. He got lost plenty of times, or came home soaking wet because he´d been out in the rain for hours. Our father didn´t understand this trait. He was very keen on punctuality. He did approve of inquisitiveness, but he´d prefer it if we read books instead of digging up earthworms."

He smiles feebly. "He didn´t like it when Sherlock got dirty, or brought dirty things inside."

"But I thought he was a horseman," John said, frowning, "don´t you get dirty when you ride horses?"

Mycroft raised an eyebrow: "I think you are confusing dressage with cowboys," he says. "One doesn´t necessarily get dirty on horseback, no."

John swallows his retort, waiting for Mycroft to continue.

"Our grandmother encouraged Sherlock," Mycroft says, after a while, "they got along very well. Which was good for him, I think, seeing as Mummy was rather withdrawn at times. Grandma gave him the unconditional affection which he surely would have missed out on otherwise. At least when I was not there. You see, Sherlock was born when I was twelve. He was a bit of a latecomer, and a surprise for our parents. I think Mummy hasn´t been quite prepared for yet another baby."

John shakes his head: "Didn´t he have a nanny?"

"Only for the first three years."

"But who cared for him afterwards?"

"We all did, more or less. Mummy when she could, Grandma, the Butler. I did, when I was there."

"Who cared for you?"

Mycroft gives a short laugh: "Excellent question, John. I did have a nanny, in fact. She stayed on when Sherlock was born, seeing as I was not in need of her care anymore and my starting at Harrow roughly coincided with the arrival of the baby."

"So, why did she leave after three years?"

"She was getting married and about to move away, I think."

"And your parents didn´t consider getting a replacement?"

"I think it didn´t seem necessary at the time. And Sherlock proved to be very independent early on."

"But still..." John has difficulties in comprehending this. "A child can´t be left to its own devices just because it´s bright and self-reliant to a certain degree."

"Oh, he was well-cared for, let me assure you," Mycroft says smoothly.

"But you said so yourself," John insists, "that he wouldn´t have gotten enough affection if it hadn´t been for your grandmother. What about your father?"

Mycroft studies John´s face, reading his thoughts as easily as his brother. His answer is a little evasive, however:"I don´t think Sherlock ever felt... neglected. He was used to it, after all; you can´t miss what you´ve never known."

This thought saddens John. It does explain a lot, certainly, but it is hard to comprehend that Sherlock´s family seemed to be capable of such indifference.

"He was very angry when I left for university," Mycroft adds, his voice much softer than before. "He was hurt and didn´t understand why I had to go, and he felt betrayed. He was only six, you see, and he already realized that he was facing being the only child in the house all of a sudden. He never quite forgave me for that."

John thinks back to the photos he´s seen; the picture from the holiday in Scotland might have been taken that year.

Mycroft is suddenly glad about the brandy; he needed an incentive to talk about these things. It has been painful for him as well; the break between his brother and him has developed slowly, but irrevocably, it seems. At first, Sherlock would ignore Mycroft whenever he came visiting, which albeit usually stopped after a few days.

By the time the older brother had to leave again, things usually had nearly gotten back to normal. Until their grandmother died. Sherlock had withdrawn completely, had been unable to speak to anyone, had hidden somewhere in the depths of the house or the gardens. Months later, he didn´t hide anymore, but he hardly talked, locked himself into his room, was surrounded by sorrow. His father hadn´t tolerated this behaviour, but nothing he did could effectively stop Sherlock. Mycroft remembers it vividly and thinks that along with their grandmother, all remaining happiness had left the house.

They drain their glasses in silence.

Sherlock is still lying on the sofa, nestled into the blanket, when John comes back to his room. He´s stirring as John squats down next to him, pulling the blanket back just a little bit to see whether he´s awake. Pale eyes open and stare at the doctor, and John, feeling rather shaken by the new knowledge he´s gained, pulls the blanket further down, searching for Sherlock´s hand. The detective´s eyebrows quirk visibly at this.

"There are still a lot of things I don´t understand about you," John says. "But you are my best friend, and I – I do care about you, you know."

Sherlock looks perplexed: "Are you proposing to me?", he asks, blinking.

"No, you idiot," John shakes his head: "I just want you to know that I´ll never leave, just like that."

"You talked to Mycroft."

"Maybe."

"Definitely."

"And now you think I´ve been suffering from neglect."

It´s uncanny, really, how Sherlock chooses the same word as his brother.

"I think you have issues."

Sherlock smiles feebly: "We already established that."

"I´m aware," John concedes, "but now I can imagine where some of them are coming from."

Sherlock turns serious again: "I only need you to be my friend, John," he says, quietly. "Not my therapist."

"I know. And I wouldn´t dare." John contemplatively smiles at him. "I think I´m good with the friend thing."

Sherlock squeezes John´s hand: "I tried to keep you away," he says quietly and, once again, unexpectedly, "that day, the fourth of March. But I was... glad, relieved even, when you came back. I think I couldn´t have done it without you."

John immediately sees him standing up there, on the roof, desperate, already gone. He blinks, trying to delete the image. "I´m not sure I would have come, had I known what was going to happen," he murmurs.

Sherlock´s gaze is steady: "Yes, you would have." And that´s the truth, of course. John knows he couldn´t have stayed away, would have tried to stop his friend from stepping off the ledge.

"You would have been killed," Sherlock mutters as if deep in thought. "And you would still have come, had you known about that."

John looks at Sherlock, thinking about this. A matter of life and death, black or white, nothing in between. The thing is, John wouldn´t even have stopped to think about it.

"Yes," he quietly agrees, "I would have."

The pressure on his hand increases.

**o o o**

**To Be Continued  
**

**o o o  
**

Feedback welcome!

**o**

 

 

 


	7. More Than Meets the Eye

 

 

**Hazard Control  
**

 

Part 7: More Than Meets the Eye

 

 

"I hope she doesn´t forget my violin," Sherlock says, for the second time within an hour. It´s the following morning, and he´s lying in the tub, which is a luxury and the first time John´s allowed him to do so; the wounds on his side and his hand have healed sufficiently, and as long as Sherlock doesn´t stay in the water for too long and uses only mild soap, they should be fine.

John, who is in Sherlock´s room reading the papers and enjoying an after-breakfast coffee, shakes his head, then gets up and pokes his head through the door: "You keep talking to me, Sherlock, but I´m out here. I don´t want to shout."

The tuft of damp, dark hair which is visible above the rim of the tub moves a little, then Sherlock´s pale eyes peer at his friend: "I thought you were sitting on the laundry basket."

"There is no laundry basket."

A frown appears on Sherlock´s forehead: "Really? Must have imagined it then."

"Yes, just like my being in here with you." John makes to withdraw, but Sherlock calls his name: "John?" Which translates to "Would you come in then, keep me company?"

John sighs: "Fine." He can get another coffee later. The air in the bathroom is too warm and humid and perfumed right now to drink hot beverages in there.

 

He sits down on the closed toilet seat: "How´s the water? No sharks, I take it?"

"Funny," Sherlock growls, splashing about; John ducks away from a few flying droplets just in time.

"I´m sure she won´t forget your violin," he then says, answering Sherlock´s earlier question patiently.

Mrs Hudson has kept the instrument in her own flat; neither she nor John had the heart to empty 221B of Sherlock´s things yet. John had taken most of his personal belongings with him, but some of his stuff is still in Baker Street. Mrs Hudson has cleared up and cleaned the kitchen, removing all of Sherlock´s more dreadful experiments, but she hasn´t given anything away, as originally intended; she couldn´t bear the idea.

Sherlock´s suits are still in his wardrobe, his bed is still unmade, the skull is still sitting on the mantelpiece. There are a few boxes with chemical ingredients, books and whatnot, but that´s it. And it now does make sense, John thinks, that Mycroft hasn´t tried to interfere. Of course. _You see but you don´t observe, John_ , he hears in his head, and sighs again. At least it´s not the voice of a dead man anymore.

"What is it?" Sherlock has heard the sigh.

"I just thought about Baker Street," John says, "it´s pretty much the same as we left it."

"Hm." That does sound rather non-committal.

John is curious: "Don´t you miss it?"

Sherlock takes his time to answer: "I do," he says quietly. "More than you can possibly imagine."

Ah. Doesn´t want to talk about it because of that.

* * *

He does get back to the topic though, a little later, when he and John are doing his exercises.

"A little more pressure," John instructs, holding Sherlock´s foot so that his lower leg is in a right angle to his thigh. "No, don´t lift your hip, that´s cheating."

Sherlock does his best to press the sole of his foot against John´s hand, but the doctor can easily counter it.

"We could take the skull print down," Sherlock says through gritted teeth, "and put the picture up above the sofa."

John wouldn´t mind losing the skull print, since he never particularly warmed to it, but he isn´t sure whether the _The Field of the Cloth of Gold_ won´t clash horribly with the wallpaper, even now that the yellow smiley face has been removed. He doesn´t say so, however; they can try how it looks when they´re there. And there isn´t much room anywhere else in the flat, after all.

"You really want to nick it?" he asks. "More pressure, come on."

Sherlock briefly grins, then the expression turns into a grimace as he concentrates on pushing against John´s hold.

"Hip down."

"It _is_ down."

"Yes, _now_ it is."

"Shut up."

"Okay, other side."

"I can´t go back to Baker Street before I can manage the stairs without help," Sherlock mutters as they walk along the gallery.

John raises his eyebrows: "Are you planning on immediately going out a lot, then?"

"No, why? Just the normal stuff."

"By normal stuff, you mean..."

Sherlock stops to look at John: "Grocery shopping. And when I´m needed."

John frowns: "Do you think Lestrade will let you back in on his cases, after all that happened?"

Sherlock mirrors the frown: "He has to, once everything´s cleared up."

"I´m not so sure," John says, "he might get into trouble."

Sherlock huffs, looking down. "Mycroft can sort it out," he murmurs.

John shakes his head: "He does come in handy, sometimes," he teases, following Sherlock, who has begun walking again.

"Sometimes," Sherlock admits, begrudgingly so. He quickly changes the topic: "Won´t you be glad when all this is over?" he asks, "it must be getting tedious."

"I´ve had worse," John quips. "And you _do_ smell good. Vetiver essence in the bath, was it?"

Sherlock ignores him, rolling his eyes.

John smiles: "Seriously, Sherlock- we did talk about this. I have already told you that I´m fine with it."

"Yes, but that was weeks ago."

"So? I have put up with you before."

"Not like this."

"Coming to think of it- no, not like this at all. Somehow, _this_ is much more relaxed."

"You´re being funny again."

"No, I am trying to lighten the mood. There´s a difference."

Sherlock stops again: "I am just saying that I can´t expect you to stay here with me all the time, it must get boring. There must be other things you´d rather do."

John shakes his head once more: "No, really. I am fine with it. I am with my best friend, whom I haven´t seen in a long time."

His expression is honest, and Sherlock feels relieved. "So I´m not just your patient."

"Heavens, no. If I´d sit with my patients while they´re taking a bath, I´d have to doubt my sanity at one point."

Sherlock smiles at that. He has always liked John´s humour.

They walk on.

 

"So, grocery shopping," John says. "Are you really going to start with that?"

"What do you mean, _start_? I have done it millions of times."

"Really? In which universe?"

"Just because I once or twice forgot to buy milk-"

"Huh. I do recall a lot of other occasions on which you didn´t go grocery shopping."

"That´s probably due to your imagination."

"Look at these indentations on my hands, they´re from the countless heavy shopping bags I lugged home."

"That´s grossly exaggerating..."

* * *

"If she does forget it," John says in the early afternoon, "please don´t be mean about it."

Sherlock, who has just woken up from a nap on the sofa, blinks at him: "Why would I?"

"Because you have been mean to her before."

"No, I haven´t."

"Yes, you have, Sherlock. Even telling someone to shut up in a quiet tone is not very nice. You didn´t like Mycroft or anyone else speaking to her like that, but you don´t make the exception yourself. Just remember in which fashion you told her about Mr Chatterjee´s wife in Doncaster. That was not exactly kind. And I won´t even start about Molly Hooper."

Sherlock, who is lying huddled into the blanket again, doesn´t reply, though the mention of Molly does trigger a vague feeling of guilt. He watches John, who is sitting in an armchair doing the _Times_ crossword puzzle, until the doctor looks up: "What is it?"

"You always want to make me a better person."

"I don´t. I just don´t want you to hurt Mrs Hudson."

"That´s not true. Well, partly maybe."

"See."

" _Why_?"

Of course he´d ask.

John puts the paper and the pen down and leans forward, his elbows on his knees, his fingers steepled: "What do you think?"

Sherlock slowly sits up: "You´re my best friend," he says after a moment´s hesitation. "you´re also my doctor. You have seen me in all kinds of situations and know about all my faults and still, you stay with me. You don´t mind, or you care enough _not_ to mind or... something like that. I don´t think many people would have done for their friends what you have done for me. Even though I hurt you and I often insulted you, you still want to be there for me. You would have risked your life for me. But you don´t like it when I am rude to other people. You try to... protect me from myself, not only from criminals."

John cocks his head: "I suppose that´s correct."

"But why?"

"Why what?"

"Why is it so important to you whether I am unpopular with others?"

John ponders this: "I don´t want them to think you´re an idiot," he says, eventually. "They have never seen the other side of you. They don´t know you like I do."

Sherlock is taken aback. "They don´t have to," he replies. "I don´t need them to."

"Yes, you do." John has forgotten how spectacularly ignorant Sherlock can actually be at times. "You could use a few more friends, Sherlock."

"Well, _now_ maybe-"

"No, I mean in general. Take Mrs Hudson, for example- you have been looking forward to her visit all day, and one reason for that is that she is going to bring your violin."

"So she is doing me a favour. Is that supposed to be a proof?"

"Yes, one might call it that. But it´s also a reason."

"Mrs Hudson counts as family rather than a friend, don´t you think?"

"Yes, true, but that´s irrelevant. What I am trying to say is that you might need other friends in case I´m unavailable."

Sherlock sits up straighter: "You said you´d never just leave."

"I know, and I meant it. But sometimes things happen- things beyond our control. What if something happens to me?"

Sherlock shakes his head: "No, John, don´t say that."

"I just want you to acknowledge the possibility."

Sherlock still shakes his head: " _Don´t_ say that."

John quickly continues: "I´m only saying it could."

Sherlock´s face is white, drained of all colour; John is surprised by this strong reaction. Surely, Sherlock must have considered this at one point or the other. But he sounded like a child just now, refusing to learn about the bad things in the world.

"Sherlock," he says, softly. "I´m here. I´m okay, nothing is going to happen."

Sherlock snorts, unwillingly, and turns his head away for a moment.

John clears his throat: "While we´re at it- there´s also Mycroft. He´s not only good for dealing with things, you know. He does care about you, too."

"He´s not you."

"No, but you can rely on him nevertheless."

Sherlock frowns: "He´s trying to control me."

John feels a strong urge to butt his head against a wall. " _No_ , Sherlock- that´s what you keep telling yourself, but I really don´t think he does. He has been most helpful, don´t you think?"

"He offered you money to spy on me."

"That´s _so_ not the point right now, and besides- a) that´s years ago, and b) he did it because he is genuinely worried about you! No, don´t look at me like that- I am not defending his methods, but do look around. He´s put you in this room because he´d assumed you´d be most comfortable in here. He´s personally come to get me when you first arrived here because he knew you wouldn´t accept anyone else, and he´s been supportive ever since."

He doesn´t tell Sherlock that he has caught Mycroft holding his unconscious brother´s hand. Somehow, it doesn´t seem his place to do so.

"He cares about you as much as I do. He just... doesn´t know how to show it sometimes."

Sherlock doesn´t seem convinced.

"And you came here, after all," John says, aware that this is the last thing his friend wants to hear.

"I don´t remember much," Sherlock states, evasively.

"Maybe not, but you still must have considered it your best option at that point."

"Hm."

John decides not to press the point home any further for the time being, but he can see that Sherlock is pondering the matter.

* * *

When the butler shows Mrs Hudson in a few minutes later, she finds Sherlock sitting on the sofa, a blanket over his legs and an absent expression on his face.

John rises to greet the old lady, kissing her on the cheek: "Mrs Hudson," he says warmly while they embrace.

She beams at him, but her attention is already on Sherlock: "Hello, my dear. Oh, look at you-it´s good to see that you´re up."

Sherlock visibly pulls himself together, allowing his guest to kiss him. She sits down next to him and looks him up and down, apparently satisfied with the result: "You look much better," she says, " John seems to have taken good care of you."

"He´s making me do physiotherapy," Sherlock says with a subtle edge.

"Oh, splendid," Mrs Hudson exclaims, "getting you back on your feet, is he?"

"Apparently, that´s what friends do." Sherlock´s tone is innocent enough, seems at least to deceive Mrs Hudson, who happily chats on while she rummages through her enormous bag: "I´ve brought you some biscuits I´ve made, your favourite ones with the almonds. Oh, and here´s a bottle of elderflower cordial, I know how much you like it."

She places the bottle and a cookie tin on the coffee table, smiling at Sherlock. He glances at John while he thanks her and does his best not to betray his impatience, though he´s itching to ask after his violin.

John almost imperceptibly shakes his head, so Sherlock complies, if grudgingly so.

"Oh dear," Mrs Hudson now says."I´ve also brought your violin, but I must have left it in the car."

"I´ll have a look," John offers, raising his eyebrows at Sherlock: _I told you so_.

Halfway downstairs, John is met by the butler, who hands him the violin case and informs him that he is going to bring tea.

Back in the room, the doctor finds it hard to concentrate on the conversation; Sherlock´s strong reaction to his words earlier finds his way back to his mind. He wonders what the other expects from him; they probably won´t be living together forever. Though at the moment John can´t imagine that at all. He hasn´t been lying to his friend when he said that he is fine with the current situation. He wants to be around Sherlock, be there for him. Be with him. Moving away from him once they are back in their flat seems inconceivable.

His heart still aches when he thinks of the past months, and his relief and gladness about the fact that Sherlock is not dead after all has not abated yet. Of course, the more Sherlock gets back to his old shape, the more difficult it gets at times, but he is still nowhere near the sharp tongue that John was so used to, and probably won´t get there at all, at least when they are undisturbed. He has definitely changed, not only in the way he now seeks physical contact more often.

John has not given Sherlock his phone back yet. Before the battery died, he has listened to some of the recorded messages again, simply because he needed to hear them, to make it more real.

In the last one, it is already evident that Sherlock´s not well, his voice sounding thin and exhausted and a little breathless, probably from pain: _I am on my way home. I think I´ve succeeded at what I set out to do. ... With Moriarty, one can never be sure, though. If I don´t make it home, you´ll probably never hear these, John. ... I certainly hope we´ll see each other again, not only for my sake. ... You are my friend, and you were right. ... What you said... a friend is so much better than being alone. ... I miss you, John, all the time. Without you, I am lost._

He ponders the last words now, wondering what exactly Sherlock meant. Whether there is more to it than John has ever expected. And how to find out if there is.

The arrival of the butler bringing tea pulls him out of his thoughts; his eyes stray over to the sofa.

"... next weekend." he hears Mrs Hudson say, and suddenly remembers that it´s Harry´s birthday soon.

"Shit," he murmurs, "I completely forgot about that. Which day is it today?"

"It´s Thursday, dear, the twelfth." Mrs Hudson answers, slightly taken aback. "What did you forget?"

"My sister´s turning 40 on Sunday," he says, inwardly groaning. Harry is going to have a party, and there´ll be no excuses for him, not even the "my best friend killed himself in front of me"-card, because it´s eleven months ago and she won´t have any mercy on him because of that.

She has already told him to budge up twice recently. He had been affronted by it, because clearly, _budge up_ simply wasn´t appropriate. But then, Harry has never been the most considerable person; too impetuous, too hungry to discover what life had in store for her. Well, he is not going to go into that now, but he has to ... plan his approach. And find a present.

"Excuse me," he says, rising, "I need to- yeah. Bugger." With that, he leaves the room, staring at his phone.

* * *

Sherlock and Mrs Hudson share a look. The old lady puts her hand on the young man´s arm, leaning closer towards him: "Is everything all right, dear?" she asks, and Sherlock´s got the uncanny feeling that, despite her harmless appearance, she might be able to read minds sometimes. He is tempted to lie, but he is also aware that there is no one else to talk to about it. And he knows that Mrs Hudson can keep a secret.

"I don´t know what I´d do without John," he says softly and without further preamble. "Somehow, he has become utterly essential to me, not just now. I have never been so reliant of another person, and yet with John it´s not even objectionable."

Mrs Hudson raises her eyebrows at his choice of words.

"Oh, come on," he says with a hint of his usual impatience, "you know what I mean. I always assumed I´d hate it if I were depending on someone else, but it turns out... I not only want John in my life, I need him. He´s like the bloody air I´m breathing." He sounds frustrated.

"And that bothers you why?"

Sherlock ruffles his hair with his hands, a familiar gesture whenever he is upset: "Because I don´t know what we are. We are not a couple, contrary to everyone else´s opinion, and I am not romantically interested in him. At least I don´t think I am, I don´t know. I don´t have sufficient experience to tell. And even if I were, I am fairly certain that he is not... gay, or even bisexual."

Mrs Hudson blushes a little, but she is bravely holding her ground, urging him to go on.

Sherlock sounds discouraged: "He is going to leave one day. He will meet someone else and move out, moving on with his life. He can´t spend his time looking after me."

"That may certainly be possible," Mrs Hudson says, cautiously, "but I don´t think he´d call his living together with you 'looking after you'. - He is very fond of you, Sherlock, is that so hard to believe?"

Sherlock´s eyes tingle, a strange sensation. He rubs the heel of one hand over them: "It´s what makes it more difficult," he replies after a moment. "It´s why he is putting up with me."

"I do think there might be one or two other reasons as well." Her smile is benign as she beholds him.

"What do I do, Mrs Hudson?" he asks, sounding every bit as young and vulnerable as he appears to her.

"First of all you should find out what he thinks about it."

"Talking about it is not an option."

"Why ever not?"

"Because we are both rubbish at it." Sherlock miserably recalls the night at Angelo´s. "We´d probably not even get to the point. And with everything else which is going on..." He doesn´t finish the sentence. He is not sure how much more John can take.

"Hm." Mrs Hudson chews on her lip, her expression turning a little mischievous. "If you can´t talk about it, you must choose a different approach. Show him how you feel."

"What? _How_? I already told you I don´t even know how I feel!"

"No, you didn´t. Your words said you don´t know, but the subtext said something entirely different." She pats his arm: "It´s your inexperience, dear. You probably wouldn´t realize that you fancy someone if the rose-tinted goggles bit you on your- you know."

Sherlock frowned at her: "I beg your pardon?"

She sighed: "Sometimes we don´t see something even if it is right in front of us. You are so very good at deducing others, Sherlock. I think now it might be time to deduce your own feelings."

"But- I don´t _fancy_ John."

"No, but you very obviously _love_ him. That´s your starting point, you can go from there. You will need to talk to him eventually if you want to find out the precise nature of a hypothetical future relationship."

Sherlock just continued to stare at her, feeling a little dumbfounded.

Mrs Hudson smiles again: "Maybe what you have will be enough."

It takes another few minutes until Sherlock trusts his voice enough to speak again: "But... even if the circumstances were in our favour, how could it work- he has been dating women all the time."

"Yes, he has. And it didn´t work out once."

"He just hasn´t met the right one yet."

"I wouldn´t be so sure about that. It´s difficult to be in a relationship with a woman when your mind and heart are elsewhere, don´t you think?"

Oh. Really? But. No. Sherlock frowns again, shaking his head: "How come you know all this?"

Mrs Hudson looks admittedly quite smug: "I do watch a lot of telly. It´s rather educational sometimes."

Sherlock shakes his head again, clearly not happy with the outcome of their conversation.

"Give it time," Mrs Hudson advises, taking pity on the hunched figure next to her. She has little experience with relationships herself, having been married only once, and not with a happy ending at that, but she has eyes, and to her, John and Sherlock do belong together, however they are going to make it possible.

She has watched John´s various girlfriends come and go and has witnessed the fateful episode at Christmas when Sherlock had been called away to the morgue; John´s heart has never completely been in it, and Sherlock has been jealous every time.

She remembers Molly saying that Sherlock had been complaining that John was going to visit Harry, and involuntarily smiled. Those two have been revolving around each other ever since they have first met. It´s not a coincidence that Mrs Turner has asked her repeatedly whether they´d be going to marry too, or that everyone who knew them seemed to suspect there was more to their relationship than met the eye.

She puts one arm around Sherlock´s shoulders: "Courage, my dear," she says very softly. "Just be yourself. He is already smitten with you."

Sherlock´s stomach gives the funniest little somersault at these words. At least it seems that Mrs Hudson also thinks John won´t leave him too soon. Of course, John has said so himself. And has actually told Sherlock that he cares about him on the previous evening. Still, Sherlock was doubtful; it has happened to him before that people who cared suddenly left. Each time had been accompanied by heartbreak.

"How can I show him what I feel?" he asks feebly, leaning into Mrs Hudson´s embrace, which is comforting. "I´ve already tried to talk to him about it, but it didn´t work. And I can´t simply ask him to stay with me forever, can I?"

"No, dear, that might be a little awkward." She reinforces her grip ever so slightly. "You want to build up to it, so he won´t be completely surprised."

Sherlock thinks that he might already have begun with that; he is touching John more frequently than he has ever done; not only because it is comforting, but also because he wants to. He wants to share John´s warmth. He feels best in John´s immediate proximity.

"I think you will need to have words," Mrs Hudson finally says, "you will realize it when the time is right. And then the words should just come to you."

"And we´ll ride off into a perfect sunset," he says, sarcastically, but Mrs Hudson just laughs: "Sherlock, don´t be an idiot," she chides, and Sherlock feels slightly guilty. "Sorry," he mutters.

They sit up, Mrs Hudson taking her arm off his shoulders: "You will do what needs to be done," she says confidently. "Just don´t rush it."

And Sherlock realizes that she is right; there are so many things to be done, the John problem is just one of them. And it´s slightly more bearable now that he is here; while he was away, missing his friend was difficult and distracting. At least they are together now.

"Thank you," he murmurs, avoiding to look at Mrs Hudson.

"You´re welcome, dear," she pats his arm once more. "I´m very happy to have you back."

**To Be Continued  
**

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	8. Brothers and Sisters

Thank you all for reading/giving feedback, it is highly appreciated!

 

**Hazard Control  
**

 

Part 8: Brothers and Sisters

 

 

That evening, John is still brooding over the Harry situation while he and Sherlock are watching a _Who Wants to Be a Millionaire_ double feature on the small TV John found hidden inside the Queen Anne fall front desk which is completing the lounge section of the room.

Sherlock is not paying much attention to the show either; he is very quiet instead of complaining about the contestants being idiots and "the moronic questions obviously still being too difficult for their exceptionally low IQs". John briefly thinks that Sherlock has somehow become the soundtrack to a lot of situations in his life; he can still hear some of the acidic comments his friend has made on various previous occasions, seemingly a lifetime ago.

Yet now he is mute, staring at the small screen, knees drawn up, huddling into the blanket. He seems a little restless, kneading the hem of the blanket and drumming an irregular rhythm with his toes every now and then.

John, who thinks he has to accept that he will have to go to Harry´s and wondering why she hasn´t called him about it yet, decides to let go of the topic for now. He slides down a little further and puts his feet on the coffee table: "Everything all right with you?"

"Yes, yes, I´m fine," Sherlock murmurs, absently. John raises one eyebrow, but doesn´t say anything. Sherlock is only going to bristle if he insists.

 

After Mrs Hudson had left, Sherlock has taken his violin out of its case, brushing over the wood with his fingertips before beginning to tune it, greeting an old acquaintance.

The first melody he played came out rather hesitantly; his fingers had felt alien on the strings, too clumsy and strange. He got up and walked over to the window, closing his eyes. He didn´t need to see what he was doing, he only needed to feel. His mind was allowed to wander while he played, that´s when the music most agreed with him.

He is tired now, having replayed the conversation with Mrs Hudson several times in his head. _Show him how you feel._

He wants to stretch out his legs and, after a moment´s hesitation, shifts around and props a pillow up against John´s side, then stretches out and cautiously leans against his friend. John doesn´t seem to mind, and Sherlock closes his eyes, feeling calmer now.

John has in fact been expecting to be grilled about the impending visit to Harry, but Sherlock apparently was too preoccupied with other things. It´s good that he seems to be more composed now; his hands and feet have stilled. If all that it takes for that is a shoulder to lean on, the doctor won´t complain.

* * *

He approaches the Harry situation on the following morning, while they are walking up the staircase. They have already been down and up again twice (on the patient´s insistence), and while Sherlock seemed rather fit to tackle it the first time, he is considerably slowing down now, firmly holding on to the banister.

"I need to go to Nottingham for two days," John says, "Harry will kill me if I don´t show up."

"Has she tried to contact you?" Sherlock asks, rather tamely.

"Not on my mobile," John replies, "maybe she´s left a message on the landline."

"Maybe she sent an email," Sherlock suggests, and John realizes he hasn´t looked at his account in ages.

"Ta," he says, "I´ll check that." He waits, but Sherlock remains silent, concentrating on his task.

"So you´ll be okay with it if I leave for the weekend?" John asks.

Sherlock turns to look at him, but the rather sudden motion upsets his balance, therefore he quickly extends one hand towards his friend, who supports him easily.

"Thanks," Sherlock mutters. "Of course I´ll be okay. I told you that you don´t have to stay with me all the time, didn´t I?"

"Yes, you did," John agrees good-naturedly. "Repeatedly."

He waits for Sherlock to take the next step, but the detective, without looking at his friend, isn´t quite done yet: "I´ll be looking forward to your return."

He doesn´t let go of John´s hand until they have reached the landing.

* * *

The weekend, as foreseen by John, turns out to be a handful from the start. He takes the train to Nottingham and finds Harry isn´t at the station to pick him up. She had indeed sent out her invitations by email; when John called her on the previous day, she had been a little short with him, probably because he hadn´t talked to her in a long time. It´s very likely that she is taking her little revenge on him now, he thinks as he flags down a taxi, turning his coat collar up against the rain.

There´s a hand-made sign on Harry´s front door: NO VISITORS EXCEPT ON PARTY BUSINESS.

Right. John asks himself whether his sister is ever going to grow up, and rings the doorbell. Two minutes later, he rings again, then resigns himself to the fact that no one seems to be at home. He can´t subdue a few curses while he searches for a hidden key, without success. Harry doesn´t answer her phone, and John has half a mind to leave and go back home when finally her battered (she calls it 'vintage') Renault R4 rolls onto the drive.

John doesn´t even pretend to smile when his sister gets out of the vehicle and, while walking around it and opening the rear to take out a few bags, waves a greeting at him.

"John," she smiles as she arrives at the door, pushing some of the bags into his arms. "You´re early, how did you get here?"

Living with Sherlock must have increased John´s patience, for he manages to count till five until he answers: "I arrived at three twenty-six, just as I have texted you I would," he says."You said you´d need some help, remember?"

"I´m sorry, hun, I must have gotten the times mixed up," she says, fumbling the key into the lock. "I went to get the rest of the stuff and kind of didn´t look at my watch."

John silently thinks that it´s a new record if he´s ready to kill his sister even before they´ve gotten into the house. At least everything looks clean and tidy, despite Harry living alone since the divorce.

 

Once they have set the bags down on the kitchen table, Harry looks John up and down: "You look good," she says. "How are you holding up?"

She doesn´t know about the recent developments yet, and John is not in the mood to talk about them, even though that is very likely going to mean that every available heterosexual woman at Harry´s party is going to throw herself at him, no doubt at his sister´s not-so-subtle instigation.

"I´m fine," he replies, aware that he sounds rather stiff. But it´s not as though Harry and he have ever been the best of mates, or even _confidantes_ , so he isn´t bothered by the fact that he is withholding the most important event of the past eleven months from her. It´s not that he wouldn´t trust her as long as she´s sober; the problem is that one can never be sure whether she really is off the booze or not, and when she´s drunk, she´s turning into a blabbermouth, which is bad enough.

"So, tonight," John then says, "how many people do you expect?"

Harry looks at him with narrowed eyes for a moment longer, then she spreads her arms: "Hell if I know. I´ve just sent the invite to about everyone in my email address list. I didn´t count them."

John purses his lips; it´s going to be _that_ kind of party.

"Well." He is determined to get through this without any unnecessary arguments. "We better get started then."

* * *

On Saturday afternoon, Mycroft knocks on the door of Sherlock´s room. When he doesn´t hear anything, he cautiously opens it and looks inside: his brother is curled up in one of the armchairs, which has been turned away from the sofa so that it faces the window, his violin in his lap.

He doesn´t appear to have heard Mycroft. Who knocks against the doorframe, louder this time. Sherlock flinches, as though startled out of a daydream, and turns his head towards him. Mycroft expects the typical grimace of disdain which Sherlock usually has in store for him, but doesn´t receive it; instead, Sherlock just looks at him, scrutinising.

Mycroft, not in the least intimidated by that, steps into the room, closes the door behind him and sits down on the sofa. "You look much better," he says, "rather well, in fact." He is not exaggerating; the unnatural pallor is gone, and Sherlock´s face less remembles a skull these days. He´s still dreadfully thin, of course, and Mycroft knows that he doesn´t eat much, despite John´s efforts. But at least he _is_ eating, Mycroft tells himself, be grateful for small mercies.

Sherlock has turned around in the chair and is watching his brother over the backrest: "Grandma´s room," he says without preamble. "You knew I´d be comfortable in here."

Mycroft smiles, albeit a little warily: "It is quite cosy, and I considered it to be the room with the most happy memories," he concedes. "You were in no state to protest, of course."

Sherlock´s gaze doesn´t waver. It´s uncanny how much he resembles his childhood self, large eyes peering at his brother. "Thank you." he says.

Mycroft can´t but raise an eyebrow; he has expected anything, but not this.

"Why the sentiment?" Sherlock continues with his trademark inquisitiveness. "You said to me that 'all lives end, all hearts are broken and caring is not an advantage'."

Ah. He´d get there, naturally. Mycroft regards his brother with a vague smile: "I am aware. And I am not ashamed to admit that I have been foolish." His expression turns serious: "Our relationship is not the best. You seem to hate me, and I... often cannot relate to your actions. And yet... the past months have enlightened me to some extent. I fear I have been rash to make such a statement."

Sherlock´s expression softens somewhat, then he looks away. "I don´t hate you."

For a moment, Mycroft thinks he has misheard. "Yes, you do," he eventually says. "You usually can´t even bear to be in one room with me." It actually pains him to say so.

Sherlock nearly disappears behind the backrest, only a few curls are visible. "Resentment is not the same as hate," he mutters, so low that it´s barely audible.

In the silence that follows, one could have heard a feather landing on the ground.

Mycroft feels the strong urge to flee, but he forces himself to remain seated.

"I´m glad to hear that," he says when he thinks his voice is steady enough.

Sherlock´s eyes reappear: "I... want you to know that I appreciate everything you´ve done for me."

"You´re my brother," Mycroft states. "Of course I´d do everything I could. Which, by the way, hasn´t been that much." He wonders whether Sherlock remembers the afternoon on which Nuffles went missing and Sherlock found solace in his brother´s arms. There have been many incidents and many occasions on which the little boy needed comfort, but for Mycroft, this one is always going to stand out particularly, even though he can´t say why.

"It´s been enough," Sherlock says, and it sounds honest. No contempt detectable in his tone.

"Good." Mycroft rises to his feet; best not to risk the ceasefire. "Would you like some tea?" he asks. Sherlock, who once again feels a little cold, nods.

"I´ll get us some," Mycroft murmurs, and makes his way out of the room. Sherlock stares at his retreating back with a strange sense of grief. He has never hated his brother; on the contrary. He has missed him.

* * *

The good thing about Harry´s party is that there are so many people that John can make himself invisible. It´s easy, really, especially as the evening goes on and everyone is increasingly drunk. He makes sure always to have a drink in his hand and never to stay in one spot too long. Observing the guests is mildly interesting; to keep himself occupied, he tries to deduce a few persons just as Sherlock might have done.

He gives it up after the third attempt however; admittedly, he´s rubbish at it, and the noice around him, a mixture of music and voices, is too loud to properly concentrate. It feels strange to be among these people, among the multitude of scents and accents, of men and women who are determined to have a good time.

It seems a little surreal, and he finds that his mind keeps wandering back to London, to Sherlock. He´d rather be with his friend now, or have him here. Though he can´t actually imagine the detective in these surroundings; Sherlock and trivia don´t go together, somehow. And trivia it is. John, who has always been sociable and who has the gift of easy conversation, feels completely out of place.

He has fended off the advances of two ladies already, and it is only eleven. Though he isn´t particularly tired, he´d like to go to bed now, and realizes that he should have stayed in a hotel rather than in Harry´s guestroom, because the party seems to be going successfully enough to last well into the early morning.

Harry has disappeared into the crowd; when he next sees her, she is giggling with two other women. John is surprised to see that she is drinking non-alcoholic beer. Maybe she´s trying in earnest this time.

At midnight, Harry´s closest friends gather in the living room and sing for her, producing a cake with sparklers and a large 40 on it. John is strangely glad to see that there are people in his sister´s life who are making an effort. Feeling slightly guilty that he hasn´t even brought flowers, he goes into the guestroom (which he has locked, wisely) and gets his present. Harry looks pleasantly surprised when he hugs her and hands her the well- wrapped box. "Don´t tip it over," he says.

It´s a very small ponytail palm, together with tickets to the "Eden Project" in Cornwall. In an argument which had then turned into a fight Harry had once thrown the plant´s predecessor at her brother; she had missed, but the palm had never recovered. John was still feeling guilty about the whole incident, because he had really nettled his sister back then.

Harry stares into the box speechlessly for a moment, then starts laughing heartily: "Come here, big brother," she gasps, pulling John into a hug. "I know it´s not always been easy with us," she kisses him on the cheek, "but you´re the best."

"I know," he quips, glad that he has chosen the right thing for once. For a heartbeat he feels the urge to tell Harry the truth about Sherlock, but then decides against it. One brief spell of harmony didn´t change much, and he was sure he´d regret it later.

"Happy Birthday," he adds, glad to have something to say.

"Thank you," she smiles at him, "and how did you know I really want to see Eden ?"

"Just a shot in the dark, after you told me you were going to Cornwall this summer."

She hugs him again, and John, relieved that he really can´t smell any alcohol on her, hugs her back.

The peace lasts until Clara shows up. She and Harry have been in contact, and maybe it´s regret or nostalgia on her part that has compelled her to come by; Harry however is less than thrilled to see her. The result is a shouting match at four in the morning.

John, who badly wishes to be able to go to bed because he is rather tired by now, at one point gives up trying to mediate between the two, and silently slips into the guestroom, which he then locks from the inside. He is used to blanking out sounds, e.g. Sherlock´s violin in the middle of the night, so he doesn´t have any trouble to go to sleep.

* * *

At the same time in London, Sherlock lies awake. He is tired yet feels agitated; back in Baker Street, he´d have gotten up and paced around the living room, maybe playing the violin. He can see it now, the polished wood gleaming in the moonlight, but it is not calling to him. He doesn´t want to leave the warm bed and get up, but he wonders whether Mycroft´s asleep.

His brother has brought him tea that afternoon, tea and a plate of freshly bakes scones. As much as Sherlock has tried, he can´t find it in him to conjure up the hostility he usually feels flooding through his veins whenever Mycroft is involved, and he has surprised himself by realizing that he was actually... glad about his company that day. John´s words come to his mind: _He cares about you as much as I do. He just... doesn´t know how to show it sometimes_.

Yet now in the semi-darkness Sherlock seems to be able to see much clearer than before. He recalls his arduous journey back to England, the relief to know he had arrived in London which shortly drowned out all the haziness and pain. He didn´t need to think about where to go; Mycroft´s place was safest for him, that much was certain.

It occurs to him that he has always assumed that Mycroft was able to do anything, even long before he had become "The Government"; Mycroft has kept Sherlock away from the drugs, if with the assistance of DI Lestrade. Mycroft had always been able to tell wonderful bedtime stories, mostly including pirates. Mycroft had found his teddy for him when he had gotten lost. Mycroft had been there after their grandma had died. He had come for Sherlock, who had refused to see him, had tried to get through to his younger brother relentlessly, if unsuccessful.

For the first time since then, Sherlock feels vaguely ashamed. It hadn´t been Mycroft´s fault, none of it, but Sherlock had made him suffer nevertheless. At one point, Mycroft had given up, understandably. Things between them seemed irrevocably broken, but now Sherlock isn´t so sure anymore. He´s rather confused by the recent developments, but maybe John has been right. Maybe Mycroft doesn´t only want to control him.

He only has hazy memories of the first few days in this house, weeks ago, but he thinks his brother has been with him at one point, holding his hand. Maybe he´s just dreamed it, but it seemed like something the Mycroft from _back then_ would have done for his little brother.

With that oddly reassuring and unfamiliar thought in mind, he closes his eyes.

* * *

John wakes up with a fuzzy feeling on his tongue and the slight hollowed-out feeling of too little sleep, reminiscent of a headache. He glances at his watch: it´s nine a.m.

Five hours just aren´t enough rest to restore his energy, but he gets up nevertheless. It´s quiet in the house, and downstairs looks like a battlefield. John finds some garbage bags and begins to clear up. By the time he hears the water running in the bath upstairs, it´s half past ten.

Harry looks tousled as she enters the kitchen. John has made some strong coffee, of which he hands her a mug now.

"Good morning," he says, "are you okay?"

His sister pauses mid-yawn: "Huh? Oh, yeah. Actually, our little showdown has been rather cathartic." She smiles.

John looks at her questioningly: "What, so you´ll try again?"

Harry´s smile turns into a wry smirk: "We already have."

In that moment, John can hear someone closing a door upstairs.

"Oh." He isn´t sure what to say, so he hides behind his mug: "That´s... good, I suppose."

Harry regards him intently for a moment, then she shrugs: "We´ll see."

* * *

John arrives at Paddington at 20 past five; he´s for once actually glad to see that a black limousine is waiting for him. He´s still tired; the plan to sleep on the train did not work out. At least he doesn´t feel as emotionally bruised as usual after visiting Harry, which is a first. He hopes that Clara and his sister will be successful in their attempt, but now that Harry indeed seems to be off the booze, and John recognizes the party as the big test that it was for her, the chances might be good.

He has nearly dozed off when the car passes through the gate of the Holmes estate. Shaking himself awake, he emerges from the vehicle rather stiffly and is greeted by the butler, who absolutely refuses to be stopped from carrying John´s holdall. Sighing, John follows him up the stairs.

In his room, he sheds his jacket and uses the loo, then he goes to see what Sherlock is doing. He can hear the violin even before he enters his friend´s room; it´s a serene piece he doesn´t recognize, and Sherlock, who´s standing in front of the window, turns towards John and smiles while he plays the last notes. John can´t but feel relieved. Sherlock seems well, and the music is evidence of his obviously good mood.

"How is your sister?" Sherlock asks at the same time that John says: "That was beautiful."

They grin at each other, and for the first time ever since Sherlock´s return, John can see how things could be once they are back to normal. He´s actually happy to see the detective, and seeing him content and vivid at that, which is such an improvement to the weeks before. For a moment, John feels the urge to hug his friend, to share his emotions with him, but Sherlock´s fiddling with the violin, still smiling, and the moment passes.

John´s a little befuddled, but puts it down to his fatigue. They sit down and he tells Sherlock about Nottingham. "I didn´t want to be there," he hears himself say at one point, "I felt completely misplaced. But I think Harry was glad about it, and it was her birthday, after all." He grins again, running one hand over his tired eyes: "Four women have been hitting on me, can you imagine?"

Sherlock feels more than a little jealous at the notion: "As a matter of fact, I can," he says, venomously, and John isn´t sure whether that´s supposed to be a compliment, so he lets it go by uncommented.

"Is everything all right with you?" he asks instead, "did you brave the stairs once more?"

"Yes," Sherlock answers to both, "it was dull."

"So you were bored."

"Out of my mind. But at least I´ve got my violin now."

John chuckles: "Back to normal, then." He gets up: "I´m going to have a shower."

Sherlock watches him leave and is suddenly glad that this time, John will only be a few rooms away, and not for too long.

* * *

Later, when they are sitting on the sofa watching telly as has become their habit on most evenings, Sherlock tells John about Mycroft. "And then he brought me tea and fed me Scones," he says, and John can´t quite tell whether he´s appalled or agreeable with that.

"He fed you? Personally?"

"You know what I mean."

John grins: "Yeah. Sorry."

Sherlock snorts: "Harry´s rubbed off on you." He has only met John´s sister once, but she has made a lasting impression on him. That is to say, not necessarily a favourable one.

John is still grinning, shaking his head before sobering up somewhat: "It´s hard to believe that you haven´t been at each other´s throats for once," he says lightly. "Or did you throw a Scone at him?"

"No, I didn´t. And for your information, I don´t intend to."

"Oh."

"' _Oh'_? What´s that supposed to mean?"

"Nothing, just- I wouldn´t have put it past you, is all."

"Throwing Scones at Mycroft?"

"Throwing whatever at Mycroft."

"Please. We´re not children anymore."

"I´m glad to hear that you have finally realized it, too."

They fall silent, John watching the movie, Sherlock first looking at John, then staring ahead for a while, unseeingly. When he´s too tired to keep himself upright any longer, Sherlock rummages around behind his back, seizes a pillow and, after a moment´s hesitation, puts it on John´s lap. Then he stretches out and makes to lie down on his side, feeling reckless. But John casually lifts his arm so that Sherlock can slip under it, then rests his hand on Sherlock´s shoulder.

John hides a smile; he has felt lonely at Harry´s because Sherlock wasn´t there, and this, whatever compelled Sherlock to use his friend as a cushion, is definitely making up for it. The warm weight against his leg feels good, as does Sherlock under his touch: solid and marvellous.

John is slightly surprised at these thoughts, or at the fact that his heart did speed up considerably when he came in earlier and Sherlock turned towards him with a fond expression. But he´s okay with it, and he´s really much too tired to explore it further.

Sherlock seems to have fallen asleep at one point, and John tentatively strokes his shoulder with his thumb: "Wouldn´t you rather like to go to bed?" he whispers.

"No," the other´s voice is rough and low. "not yet."

"Okay." This time, John smiles. He feels he´s near dozing off himself, but he doesn´t want to get up either. They are not in a hurry, after all, and it is cosy like this. He hasn´t realized that he´s been quite tense, but that seems to seep away now.

"You were right about Mycroft," Sherlock murmurs all of a sudden. John doesn´t answer, but he gently squeezes Sherlock´s shoulder in response, meaning that he´s glad, and probably a little proud of his friend as well.

Strange creatures, humans, Sherlock muses, but it´s just as well. He´s learning by degrees.

**To Be Continued  
**

Please leave some feedback.

**Additional notes:** You can read about the 'Eden Project' here: en . wikipedia wiki/Eden_Project (just remove the blank spaces).

The lines "All lives end. All hearts are broken. Caring is not an advantage" are quoted from "A Scandal in Belgravia".

The line "NO VISITORS EXCEPT ON PARTY BUSINESS" is of course borrowed from "The Lord of the Rings". =)

 


	9. Good Men

**T** hank you all so much for reading and of course to those who gave feedback, it´s highly appreciated!

 

Enjoy!

 

**Hazard Control  
**

 

Part 9: Good Men

 

 

John awakes with a crick in his neck. For a moment, he is completely disoriented and unable to find his bearings, but then he realizes where he is, why he is there and what is unusual about it. He is still sitting on the sofa, the TV is running and a warm weight is resting on his thigh, consisting of Sherlock, who seems fast asleep.

John blinks and leans back again. Apart from his slightly achy neck, he is very comfortable, and getting up seems entirely too much effort. He fumbles for the remote control and switches off the TV; when Sherlock doesn´t react to the sudden absence of background noise, John feels almost relieved. He wants to stay like this for a while longer; this is what he would have preferred to the previous night, and it is nice to just close his eyes and let his fatigue take over.

 

He has just dozed off again when Sherlock moves, snuffling a little and turning onto his other side so that he´s facing John´s hip, burrowing closer into the other´s warmth without waking up. John drowsily regards the shapes of Sherlock´s face: his nose, his dark eyelashes, the faint lines around his mouth, and smiles; his friend´s looks are still there, more prominent now that he is recovering.

John has seen Molly staring at Sherlock on various occasions, each time unaware that she was doing it and yet mesmerised by his face and the grace with which he moved, unable to turn her eyes away. John could never blame her, for he could see what she saw: Sherlock was gorgeous. He admittedly looked unusual with his strongly curved mouth and his slightly slanted eyes, the unruly hair, but he possessed a beauty which most people around John (and possibly, Molly) lacked.

During the past few weeks Sherlock looked ill and drawn, which is improving now. He bears new scars and his eyes tell of the hardship he´s been through, but his beauty is still there.

John is distracted from these thoughts when Sherlock´s breath hitches and he begins to tremble; he moves about ever so slightly, making small sounds of distress.

"Sherlock," John murmurs, gently, "you´re dreaming." He squeezes his friend´s shoulder, and Sherlock calms down. John hums reassuringly as his hand slowly wanders over his friend´s neck until it reaches the mass of dark hair. Cautiously, he weaves his fingers through the fine, silky curls once, twice, smoothing them back from Sherlock´s temple. The detective lies quiet again; all is well.

**o**

John wakes up a second time, much later, because by now his whole body protests, and he feels cold. With a grimace, he rubs his neck and blinks until his vision clears, then he gently shakes his friend´s shoulder: "Sherlock."

The detective returns to consciousness slowly, then pushes himself up on his arms, a little befuddled and not quite awake:"What´s wrong?"

"We should go to bed," John says, "it´s late and I really am too old for this."

"I´ll sleep here," Sherlock murmurs, looking as though he intends to lie down again.

"Are you sure you wouldn´t be more comfortable in bed?" John asks, doubtful.

"I´ll be fine," Sherlock lowers himself down again, apparently too drowsy to realize that John has yet to get up. He reaches for John´s hand and holds it tight: "G´night," he mutters, closing his eyes again.

John can´t but chuckle: "You´ll have to let me go."

Sherlock´s answer is unintelligible, but his hold on John´s hand tightens.

"I´m not sleeping on the sofa," John protests, to no avail. Despite his friend´s tiredness, he doesn´t release the other man.

"Let me at least lie down," John grumbles, realizing he´s fighting a losing battle. At that, Sherlock lifts his head so that his friend can shift his position, and moves further towards the backrest to make way; grunting, John stretches out next to him, fully intending to get up again as soon as Sherlock´s gone back to sleep.

Fortunately, this sofa is much wider than the one in their flat, thus it is quite comfortable. With clumsy movements, Sherlock lifts the blanket so that John can share it, and closes his eyes once more, scooting closer to his friend, who lies on his back. John doesn´t even realize that he´s the first one to fall asleep; Sherlock however, who has always been a good actor, is wide awake again, listening to John´s breathing.

* * *

On the following morning, the first things John registers is that he is not lying in a bed, and that he isn't alone. He is lying on his side in close quarters with someone else. Even before he opens his eyes, the memories of the night come back, and sure enough, it is Sherlock next to him, still asleep, half-turned onto his side, facing away from John. Who is a little startled at first, wondering how on earth Sherlock has managed to get him to sleep on the sofa. Or why, exactly. John looks at his friend and recalls how peaceful it has been, just sitting there with Sherlock- well, snuggled up, sort of, and he knows that he really doesn´t mind and wouldn´t want to be elsewhere, in his bed for example.

His gaze is riveted to the silhouette of Sherlock´s features, thoughts picking up where they have left off during the night. Sherlock´s face has been the subject of many a nightmare John has had, not only the bloodied version after the fall but in various states of being- serious, dismayed, shouting, smiling, brooding- it´s all been there, in his head, and had found its way into John´s unconscious, tormenting him. As he looks at it now, he ponders the contrasts- the fair skin and the dark hair, the high cheekbones and the long jaw, the seemingly sharply defined edges which yet possess a certain softness.

He is suddenly aware of his own heartbeat again and realizes that he has lifted his hand in order to touch Sherlock´s cheek.

 _What are you doing_? he asks himself, but he can´t seem to stop. His fingers ever so slightly brush over Sherlock´s cheek and along the jaw, repeating the motion in a tender caress. John freezes when Sherlock moves a little, sighing barely audibly, and surreptitiously pulls his hand back before his friend´s eyes begin to open.

Sherlock blinks a few times, then turns onto his back in order to look at John. A smile ghosts over his expression as they behold each other, adding to John´s already accelerated heartbeat.

 _What´s going on here_? a tiny voice in the doctor´s head asks, _he´s your friend, your_ patien _t for heaven´s sake, you can´t possibly-_

Sherlock can see the confusion on John´s face, made visible by a slow-spreading frown.

"Good morning," Sherlock says to distract his friend, his deep voice is still rough from sleep.

"Rascal," John replies after he has recovered from the chill which has run down his spine just now, "I said I didn´t want to sleep on the sofa."

Sherlock feigns innocence: "Why did you, then?"

"You held on to me with a death grip."

"Nonsense, I can barely walk up the stairs."

With a short, sarcastic laugh John sits up, stretching: "Yeah."

Sherlock still doesn´t want him to get up; he feels a strong compulsion to pull John back down and crawl into his arms. Which he really can´t do, obviously, if he doesn´t want to scare the other one off. John seems bewildered enough as it is. Maybe Sherlock should have let him go to bed, maybe he has been too rash. It was nice to be so close to his friend, share a blanket with him. John´s scent has been all around him, which made him feel... at home. And yet in hindsight it seems selfish.

John is about to get to his feet when he hears Sherlock´s voice behind him, rather soft now: "Sorry."

He pauses, turning around: Sherlock has sat up as well and does look rather contrite.

John shakes his head: "Nothing to be sorry about," he says, after a moment of deliberation, and it is true: he has slept well enough, and even though he is a little confused, there´s nothing wrong with the situation per se.

"I made you feel awkward," Sherlock insists. His hair is tousled, which albeit doesn´t make that much of a difference, especially now that it´s not as long as usual; if anything, it makes him look younger. Vulnerable.

John regards him pensively: "I didn´t feel awkward," he eventually replies. "I just didn´t expect-"

What? What didn´t he expect? Sherlock wishes he would go on, but John needs a moment to gather his thoughts. He doesn´t want to upset Sherlock by saying _butterflies in my stomach_ , for he doesn´t know how the other would react to that. Sherlock may have changed concerning tolerating and even seeking physical contact, but that doesn´t mean he´d necessarily approve of John suddenly swooning over him, especially because it´s taking himself by surprise as well.

He decides to be as honest as Sherlock can probably take:"I find I like being close to you," he says, heart pounding in his throat, "I just didn´t expect you to do the same."

Sherlock´s gaze is unfathomable as it roams over John´s face now: "How did you think I´d react?"

John shrugs: "Feeling crowded, maybe."

Sherlock looks down:"Yes. I probably would have done so, once." His voice is very low as he speaks next: "Not now, though. And not with you. Never with you."

With a pang of fresh guilt which entirely drowns out the pleasant surprise he feels at those words, John remembers his machine comment; he knows that Sherlock doesn´t resent his saying so, and they have already talked about it, after all. And yet he still feels guilty about it, probably always will. Unthinkingly, he reaches up to curl one hand around Sherlock´s neck and gently pulls him close until Sherlock´s forehead leans against his shoulder: "I´m sorry," he breathes, "please don´t think I don´t know that you care about me. I didn´t want to imply that you don´t."

He can feel Sherlock´s breath against his collarbone and the slight tremor in his friend´s body, and once more feels the strong urge to protect him.

They stay like that for a moment, then Sherlock slowly pulls away: "I really did behave like a machine sometimes, didn´t I." He still doesn´t look at John. "That night at the pool, when we thought Moriarty had gone- I could see that you looked as though you´d keel over after I´d pulled the vest off of you, and still I couldn´t bring myself to... to hug you, or whatever it is people do in such situations."

John remembers it all too vividly: the adrenaline wearing off, his knees turning into jelly. The relief mingling into his shock as he leaned against the cubicle.

"You´re not most people," he says. "And we´ve already established that you´re not a machine."

Sherlock huffs. "I even do have a heart," he murmurs, sounding almost absent-minded. He stares at something no one else can see, eventually shaking his head: "I kept you at arm´s length." When he finally looks up, his eyes are glazed: "I want to change that."

"I think you´re already doing that," John´s eyes are smiling. He feels the butterflies again, but it doesn't matter that he is not quite sure what is happening with him. One step at a time.

* * *

Mycroft Holmes has been lying awake for the past two nights. His talk with Sherlock has upset him more than he´d have expected; partly because he didn´t anticipate the outcome, but mostly because he hasn´t said all he set out to say. He had wanted to tell Sherlock the truth, a truth that John knows about but obviously hasn´t shared with his friend.

Mycroft felt ashamed when Sherlock thanked him, which effectively took the wind out of the older brother´s sails. Sherlock being something other than hostile towards him was so unusual and has taken Mycroft so strongly by surprise that he couldn´t bring himself to say what he wanted to tell Sherlock: that it had been his own brother who had sold the detective to Moriarty. That he had told the man whatever he had wanted to know about Sherlock, had fed his obsession with details only he and Sherlock knew. That it was his, Mycroft´s fault that Sherlock had to fake his suicide, had to give up his life and had nearly been killed in the aftermath.

Guilt is plaguing Mycroft as it has ever since John had angrily stormed out of the Diogenes club, on the eve of the fateful day.

"I don´t hate you," Sherlock had said, but he was going to if he knew the truth, wasn´t he? The idea is unbearable, especially now that some kind of truce seems to have been achieved. Mycroft´s heart aches at the notion of destroying it again.

This is worse than any problem he has ever had to face; for the first time in his adult life, Mycroft Holmes doesn´t know what to do.

* * *

Another week passes. Sherlock is getting restless as his strength gradually increases. The exercises, much as he refuses to admit it, are doing him good, and when the weather finally changes from icy to much milder temperatures, he wants to go out into the garden. Wrapped in his coat and scarf and wearing a wooly hat which nearly caused a fight between John and him but which the doctor was adamant he wear, he is strolling through what might be a rosarium in summer.

The air is nippy but carries the promise of spring. Sherlock inhales deeply, rising his face towards the still feeble April sun. John watches him: he looks translucent in the pale golden light, but he has walked here under his own steam, and he clearly enjoys this first venture outside.

At a fountain richly decorated with stone figurines of angels, Sherlock stops to look. The delicate faces are withered, but still recognizable, and he smiles; when he was little, he has given them all names. He only remembers a few of them, but this has been one of his favourite places.

John and he haven´t talked about the night on the sofa again, but Sherlock has repeatedly used John's thigh as a pillow since then. It has as much become a ritual as watching the telly or John´s reading to his friend, which he still does. They are quite content to spend their evenings like that, only the two of them, and John can´t but hear himself, an eternity ago: "We´re not a couple." And Irene Adler´s voice answering: "Yes, you are."

And he realizes that somewhere, there is some truth in it. It´s strange and complicated and not entirely logical, but Sherlock has said it twice now, after all: he´d be lost without John, and John doesn´t have to think about the fact that he undeniably needs Sherlock as well. During the past week, he has been away on errands on a few occasions, such as going to the hairdresser´s, and each time he was glad to be getting back.

He didn´t lie when he said he didn´t want to be anywhere else, and in some way, this feeling has grown even stronger. He doesn´t miss dating or even sex; he´s got all he needs. Maybe that is going to change once they are back in Baker Street and Sherlock is completely well again; it doesn´t seem likely that they are going to spend the rest of their evenings on the sofa together. John wouldn´t mind, though, he is looking forward to it every time. He likes it when Sherlock seeks contact, likes to put his hand on his friend´s shoulder. Likes their closeness, as he has told Sherlock. Haptic comfort, he thinks, though it might be more than that.

A strange thought; he´s never felt attracted to men, and it might not be even be any kind of familiar desire he´s feeling, but he clearly wants whatever Sherlock has to offer and allows him to do. It does feel good, which is enough for him at the moment. Maybe Sherlock will be entirely adverse to anything physical once he´s back on his feet and not feeling as dependent anymore, a thought which is rather unpleasant. _This isn´t me_ , he has said. Hopefully that has changed.

"Lestrade has texted me," John says when they are back in the house and having some tea. "They have finally wrapped the investigations concerning the children." He doesn´t need to specify, Sherlock knows what he means.

"Let me guess," the detective says, and his voice is as acerbic as John is wont of him, "it turns out that I have been used as a bogeyman and that the kids have confirmed never to have actually met me in their life."

"Yes."

Sherlock sighs, obviously annoyed: "And _that_ has taken them nearly a year?"

"Lestrade has been working on other leads as well," John points out. "He never believed me when I told him you were a fraud. He felt guilty about trying to arrest you in the first place."

"Doesn´t change a thing," Sherlock murmurs, wrapping his fingers more firmly around his cup.

"Yes, it does," John insists, "Lestrade has gathered everything you need to have your name cleared. He´s been doing double shifts and dug out old files, he´s even been working on the weekends. He was... obsessed with it. And now his wife´s left him for good."

"How do you know all that?"

"He´s been in touch," John says. "Always kept me updated."

"That´s... nice." Sherlock is a little surprised to hear about it. He has always liked Lestrade, but he didn´t expect him to go to such lengths. It was actually touching to hear that the three people for whom he had stepped off the roof of Barts were the three people who actually believed in him. And Mycroft, of course. If he counted his brother, he had four friends altogether, which wasn´t bad at all. Maybe he should heed John´s advice and be a little more patient even with Lestrade; it isn´t his fault that his brain is slow, after all.

"It´s very decent of him," John agrees, "though there were times at which I wished he wouldn´t. Hell, I couldn´t even say your name." He smiles, trying to make light out of it, but Sherlock can see that his eyes darken at the memory.

"I wish I hadn´t caused you so much pain," he murmurs. "Maybe there _would_ have been another way, I´ve been pondering that..."

John shakes his head: "If you didn´t see a way back then, there won´t have been anything you could have done," he says, and Sherlock is struck by the extent of his loyalty. He obviously still believes in Sherlock.

"There was barely any time," Sherlock points out, "I might have missed an idea or two."

"You wouldn´t have," John says stubbornly. "We can as well stop thinking about it, what´s done is done, and we can put it past us."

Sherlock gets up from his chair and sits down next to John, scrutinising his face: "But you´re still carrying it with you," he says softly. His fingertips find the new lines on John´s face, tentatively tracing them before seeking his gaze once more: "It´s there, everywhere." In your eyes, in the way your clothes are slightly too wide for you now. In the way you look at me. He doesn´t say that out loud.

John blinks at his friend, dizzily; he can´t find any words to say. Sherlock has rarely been so gentle with him, and John soaks it up like the first rays of sunshine earlier, satisfying a hunger he hasn´t even been aware of until recently. He trembles, maybe from Sherlock's touch, maybe from the memories his friend has just been talking about; either way, he´s stunned.

"It would have been the other way round," he manages eventually, "if I had had to commit suicide and you had been there to witness it."

Sherlock smiles vaguely, seriously, acknowledging the truth in that.

"You worried about me all the time," John continues, because he is now sure about that. "You were in danger, and still you worried about me."

"Yes."

"But you couldn´t do anything about it."

"No."

"That must have killed you."

For a breathless moment, they simply stare at each other, then they simultaneously explode with laughter.

"S-sorry," John gasps, but can´t contain himself yet, and they end up wiping tears of mirth out of their eyes and holding their sides, falling back against the sofa in helpless giggles. When those finally subside, they both half-sit, half-lie rather still, overwhelmed by the cathartic effect the bout has had on them.

"You know, maybe we should tell Lestrade," John says eventally, when he has sufficiently recovered. "He can keep a secret."

Sherlock nods, contemplatively: "Yes. Might be good."

"I´ll give him a call then," John offers. "When?"

"Tomorrow," Sherlock says. "No point in waiting."

* * *

Lestrade is surprised to hear back from John, who´s asking to meet him. He has rarely answered any of the DI´s messages, and on the few occasions Lestrade saw him, he looked dreadful.

"Are you coming to the Yard?" he asks now.

"Yes," John sounds hesitant. "I will. Are you sure you´re going to have some time?"

Which does sound like a strange question, but Lestrade decides not to heed it. "Sure, as long as no emergency pops up. I´ve got plenty of overtime anyway."

"Good. I´ll see you around ten."

John looks at Sherlock: "We´ll do it Mrs Hudson-style."

* * *

After they have hung up, the Detective Inspector looks at the stack of files currently occupying the centre of his desk. If he hadn´t already done so before, he´d have come to appreciate the help of Sherlock Holmes in earnest during the last eleven months. Everything seems to be extraordinarily slow-going whereas Sherlock would probably have needed only one look. Sometimes it is like staring at the trees but not finding the forest. And if he is honest with himself, he doesn´t only miss Sherlock's sharp eyes and his brain- he misses the man himself.

He still feels a pang of pain and guilt when he thinks of him, and he will probably never forget the photos of his bloodied, lifeless face. As a policeman he had to detach himself from those things, but this had been too personal. He had failed Sherlock, had allowed himself to be talked into that nonsense about him being their prime suspect too easily, not for a moment truly stopping to consider what he knew about the consulting detective. He has helped to destroy him. Even now, eleven months later, his eyes sting at the thought. No wonder John has mostly avoided him. He´s all the more pleased that the doctor has called, maybe he´ll have the chance to apologize. He owes Sherlock that little, at least.

* * *

John looks considerably better when he enters Lestrade´s office the next morning. The DI feels a little awkward as he offers him a chair, but the doctor seems at ease, which is better than anything Lestrade has hoped for.

"I wanted to show you the press release we´ve prepared," he says, "before we pass it over. Just in case there ´s something wrong with it." The unspoken words hang in the air between them: So we won´t make it any worse than it already is.

"Thank you," John takes the folder Lestrade hands him, but doesn´t look at it. "I wanted to talk to you as well." Something in his tone raises the inner alarm bells of the DI; John is calm, but something's odd. Lestrade can´t quite put his finger on it.

"James Moriarty," John begins, clearing his throat, "was real."

"I know," Lestrade hurriedly interrupts, "it´s all in here." He indicates the thickest file.

John purses his lips, then continues: "And he was clever. He had planned in advance. That day on the roof, before-" He pauses. Even now, it´s difficult to talk about; he needs to concentrate.

"He told Sherlock that he had snipers trained on Mrs Hudson, you, and me, and that all three of us were going to be killed if Sherlock didn´t jump."

Lestrade folds his arms, taking a moment to comprehend this. "But he shot himself. How-" Suddenly agitated, he unfolds his arms again, gripping the armrests of his chair: "How do you know this?"

John nods in acknowledgement of the question, but he can´t stop now, he´s carefully planned what to say. It was difficult enough with Mrs Hudson, and it doesn´t get easier the second time. "He then committed suicide himself, meaning he couldn´t call his riflemen back anymore. Sherlock didn't have a choice."

Lestrade is staring at him with narrowed eyes.

John braces himself: "Sherlock however had anticipated something like that. He was prepared when he went out on that roof. He jumped. But he... he didn´t die."

Lestrade feels dizzy. For a moment, it´s him standing up there on the ledge, looking down into the abyss, facing the horror which is going to follow if he takes only one single step forward. He swallows, looking at John in disbelief: "He´s... you mean he´s not dead?"

John nods, mutely.

" _How_?"

The doctor shakes his head: "I don´t know. We haven´t gotten round to that yet, I´ve only known for a few weeks."

Wordlessly, Lestrade opens the bottom drawer of his desk, pulls out a silver hipflask and hands it over.

John raises one eyebrow but accepts it nevertheless, taking a swig before handing it back. The whisky runs down his throat like fire, but it feels good. He can still taste the smoky flavour on his tongue when he tells Lestrade about the past weeks.

"I would like to take you to him," he finishes, "so you can talk to him. Show him this." He indicates the folder in his hand.

Lestrade runs one hand over his chin: he doesn´t know what to say. He´s bloody _trembling_ , for heaven´s sake. "There´s no chance I´m dreaming this, is there?" he asks feebly, and John shakes his head sympathetically.

It takes a few more minutes of pacing back and forth behind his desk and visibly pulling himself together before Lestrade feels up to speaking again: "Well," he says, clasping his hands together in the attempt to rally his composure, "somebody should cross the Channel to buy champagne, then."

John gives a small laugh: "I think Mycroft´s got that covered."

"Yeah, right, of course." Lestrade still seems jittery while he puts on his coat: "Can´t believe this," he mutters, and John recalls what he has once told him: "Sherlock Holmes is a great man. And I think one day, if we're very, very lucky, he might even be a good one."

"We´ve been lucky," he murmurs, and Lestrade, who´s been fiddling with his coat collar, stills: "Yeah," he says after a few seconds, sounding pleasantly surprised.

**To Be Continued  
**

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**Additional note:** The line **"** Sherlock Holmes is a great man. And I think one day, if we're very, very lucky, he might even be a good one." is from _A Study in Pink_.


	10. Blanket

 

 

**Hazard Control  
**

 

Part 10: Blanket

 

 

Sherlock has been pacing around the room ever since John left for New Scotland Yard. He tells himself that he can´t actually be nervous about meeting Lestrade for the first time in nearly a year, but he is. He´s not entirely sure how the DI is going to approach the situation; despite his efforts to clear Sherlock´s name, Lestrade is probably angry, and Sherlock wouldn´t put it past him to make his feelings clear.

When his legs begin to tremble, Sherlock sits down, violin in his lap for comfort. His fingers stay still on the wood until it begins to feel warm, which calms him somewhat.

The room feels too large without John in it. He hasn´t seen Surinder Singh in ages, and Mycroft seems to have disappeared; probably running errands for the prime minister.

Sherlock´s gaze wanders over to the sofa: he seems to have made progress with John; there´s a new understanding between them, which is good. John said he liked being close to him, and Sherlock seizes the opportunity to seek his touch more frequently. He is content with the way things are right now, but he knows that he will still have to talk to John at one point, because they are not going to stay here forever; they are using borrowed time.

* * *

Lestrade doesn´t know what he has expected. Unlike John a few weeks ago, he looks around the impressive house, notices things, counts the steps of the stairs out of habit. But nothing could have prepared him for the sight of Sherlock Holmes, alive, getting to his feet as John and the policeman enter his room. He´s holding his violin, as ever, and is wearing a dark blue expensive looking jumper.

He is thinner than Lestrade has ever seen him, very pale, looking worn and... fragile. But he is alive. He is breathing, moving, looking at him. An insecure smile makes its way onto his features when Lestrade comes to stand in front of him, speechless despite knowing in advance. It is unbelievable, even now that he can see Sherlock´s chest rising, can look into those unfathomable eyes. It won´t be real until he touches him, and he´s briefly tempted to say "pinch me".

He doesn´t. He simply closes the distance between them with one long step and pulls Sherlock into a clumsy embrace, not caring whether the damn man wants it or not. He holds on tight for a few seconds, and Sherlock, who´s been standing rigid at first, tentatively brings his own arms up around Lestrade.

 

When they let go, the DI´s eyes are shining: "If you do that again, I´ll kill you." His voice is as gravelly as Sherlock remembers it, and there´s genuine affection in his eyes as they roam over Sherlock´s face now.

"Good to see you, too," Sherlock says, and Lestrade unexpectedly pulls him close once more, hugging him with more confidence.

"Don´t break him," John quips because he can see that Sherlock is doing his best not to squirm. It seems that he still isn´t too comfortable with physical contact of such fashion, making John the exception. A warm feeling spreads in the doctor´s chest at this realization.

 

They sit down and the butler brings them tea, but Lestrade barely glances at him; he evidently can´t tear his eyes away from Sherlock. And his mind is on the last time they met.

"I´m sorry," he says, not wasting any time; it seems important to him to get this out. Of course it is, as he hasn´t expected to ever get to say the following words:"I really am. Sherlock- I didn´t want to arrest you."

"I know." Sherlock´s tone is void of sarcasm. "It was evident at the time, and you obviously were reluctant to come after us that night, after I had... obtained the gun. I don´t blame you."

"Well, I blame myself," Lestrade says, running a hand through his hair. "I knew better, I shouldn´t have let all that happen. I really don´t know how I could be so blind."

"No need to apologize," Sherlock says calmly, and John is impressed by him. The old Sherlock would have shredded Lestrade to pieces, probably, and then said something scathing about Donovan and Anderson. The current Sherlock however does no such thing. He is remarkably composed.

"Are you going to tell us what happened?" the DI asks. John has told him about Moriarty´s web. Sherlock hesitates: "Not yet. I... need to look through my notes." John is certain that Sherlock doesn´t need any notes to remember, but he clearly doesn´t want to go into any details now. It seems to make him feel as uncomfortable as before. Even John hasn´t heard much about it yet, after all.

"Okay," Lestrade nods, still regarding Sherlock attentively. John tries to see their resurrected friend from the DIs perspective: to him, Sherlock must seem even more frail than he looks; Lestrade hasn´t been there for the first few weeks, after all, hasn´t witnessed the progress Sherlock´s made. He probably sees a man who looks as though he´s been ill and is still recovering from said illness; John sees a man who is on his way back to life. There´s a subtle yet undeniable difference.

"We need to think about a strategy, however." Lestrade now says. "The press is going to go mad once this is out," he waves the folder he´s brought. "We need to talk about what to tell them once you´re back in Baker Street and people will see you´re alive."

 

No one has heard the door opening, but now Mycroft comes in. John, feeling that they couldn´t leave the older Holmes brother out of this, has informed him about the meeting.

Mycroft greets Lestrade with a handshake and sits down: "I don´t wish to intrude," he says politely, "but it seems that I can be of help in this matter."

Sherlock pulls his legs up to his chest and settles more comfortably into his chair; he only half-listens when Lestrade and Mycroft start brainstorming (which means Lestrade comes up with ideas and Mycroft tells him why they won´t work). He could of course inform the DI that Mycroft very probably has already planned everything up till the last detail and that he needn´t bother; his brother is very meticulous, after all. But maybe Lestrade needs to feel that he is helping, so Sherlock doesn´t say anything.

He hasn´t thought about the press until the previous day, though he knew the ado he will have to face is inevitable; an internet phenomenon who has met an infamous end after admitting being a fraud and then returns from the dead only to prove he hasn´t been a fraud after all might be the scoop of the year for some. Sherlock involuntarily snarls as he is reminded of Kitty Riley; well, she is in for a surprise.

Sherlock has been lying awake that night, pondering the matter, and he can still smell the woman´s cheap perfume. He can feel his exhaustion creeping up on him, now that the adrenaline is wearing off, and it annoys him to no end that he still needs so much rest in comparison to on how little sleep he could usually run on.

"I have already taken all the necessary precautions," Mycroft says, "and the surveillance status of Baker Street and other relevant locations has been upgraded."

"Upgraded? Meaning you _are_ supervising those locations already?"

"Of course." Mycroft smiles non-committally.

Lestrade leans forward: "Which other locations?"

"That needn´t concern you."

"It _should_ concern me."

"Why?" Mycroft´s polite expression doesn´t waver.

" _Why_? Because I´m with the police!"

"And that is significant how?"

"Bloody hell..."

Lestrade looks from Mycroft to John for support, but the doctor isn´t paying them any attention at the moment; an affectionate expression has spread on his face, a smile´s tugging at the corners of his mouth. He is watching Sherlock, who appears to have dozed off in his chair. Lestrade can´t say what surprises him more: that Sherlock has fallen asleep in the middle of their meeting, or what he reads in John´s face. The bloke seems... riveted, if that´s the word, and not for the first time during their acquaintance Lestrade wonders whether there´s more to these two than just friendship.

During most of the time that he has known Sherlock, the man has been a loner. Lestrade hasn´t for one second been fooled into thinking that it has been completely by choice, and he was all the more surprised to learn that the doctor who had taken to follow Sherlock around had actually moved in with him. But he soon learned to value John, who seemed to be the only person Sherlock could neither intimidate nor play games with. And Sherlock didn´t seem to want that anyway, he seemed to be happy about having a friend, so happy in fact that he even accepted it when John reprimanded him. Well, most of the time.

And now John is looking at Sherlock with an expression one could speculate about and doesn´t even seem to be noticing it.

 

When Lestrade looks back to Mycroft, the older Holmes seems unperturbed, though Lestrade thinks he´s seen a tiny smirk disappear just now.

"Rest assured that I will be informing you of any developments which might fall under your jurisdiction," Mycroft says, "such as reporters stepping out of line."

"Let me tell you what I think," Lestrade says, "I think you aren´t completely sure if Moriarty´s web is destroyed in its entirety. You need to take precautions as soon as word gets out that Sherlock´s back; the press doesn´t really concern you."

For the first time since the Inspector´s entered his house, Mycroft´s polite smile turns into the genuine article; against his will, he is impressed.

"Well," he concedes, "we might be able to liaise."

John, who has listened in to the conversation again with one ear, snaps out of his reverie when Sherlock suddenly moves a fraction and opens his eyes, blinking in confusion for a moment.

"Sorry," Sherlock mutters under his breath once he realizes what has just happened, but John seeks to appease him: "It´s all right," he replies, equally low, and gives his friend a smile. Sherlock returns it ever so briefly before sitting up straighter, surreptitiously stretching out his legs.

He looks up when he hears the name Molly Hooper.

"...surveillance on her as well," Mycroft is just saying.

John raises one eyebrow: "On Molly? Why?"

The older Holmes directs one pointed glance at his brother, who sighs: "Molly´s been helping me."

"Molly? Are you saying she´s been in on this?" Lestrade sounds incredible.

John however gives a short, humourless laugh: "Of course. I should have known it. When Molly didn´t fall to pieces, I should have suspected something´s odd."

Sherlock has to admit that he has been surprised by Molly´s acting skills; she did appear to be shocked and mourning after his alleged death, very unlike her usual nervous self. But it seems it hasn´t been enough; John is still shaking his head. "And she avoided me- I assumed that´s because she thought I´d..." he doesn´t finish the sentence, though Sherlock would have loved to hear the rest of it.

"She was the only one who could help, on such short notice," he says by way of excuse disguised as explanation, because clearly, John isn´t too pleased about it.

"Because she works in the morgue," Lestrade concludes, and Sherlock nods.

* * *

When Lestrade leaves half an hour later, Mycroft accompanies him to the door.

"Do you really think there are more?" Lestrade asks, searching Mycroft´s face.

"I don´t know," the answer sounds surprisingly honest. "But it´s better to be safe than sorry, isn´t that what people are saying?" He smiles thinly, and Lestrade can suddenly see that Mycroft is and has been genuinely worried about his brother.

"With someone like Moriarty, one can never be too sure," Lestrade agrees.

"But Sherlock survived," Mycroft says. "You have seen him, Detective Inspector. You can imagine how bad it has been. I don´t want a repetition."

After the butler has cleared away the tea dishes, Sherlock tries to determine whether John is angry. Or rather, how angry he is. He has picked up the newspaper, which he hasn´t read so far, and immersed himself in it in order to avoid talking, which isn´t a good sign. Sherlock stares at the paper so intently that by rights two holes should be appearing, but the doctor ignores him.

"John," he says, and only receives a non-committal grunt.

"I wouldn´t have asked her if I had had a choice. You know that."

"I keep hearing a lot about choices," John says from behind the newspaper; his tone is clipped. "But strangely, those never included me." He feels a little mean at this, but it´s also good to vent the resentment he surprisingly feels afresh. He has been fine with not being part of the plan after listening to Sherlock´s recordings, and it did make sense, of course. However, that Molly Hooper of all people, whom Sherlock normally treated horribly whenever they met, had been let in on it but he, John, had not did sting more than a little.

Sherlock hears the jealousy in the doctor´s voice and wishes he weren´t so tired and able to think a little better this morning.

"She was the only one who was able help me at that point," he says, at the same time knowing that he has made a mistake. Irrational as it is, it´s the last thing John wants to hear. He gets up rather abruptly, scrunching up the newspaper in the process. Without so much as looking at Sherlock, he marches out of the room, shoulders stiff in disapproval.

"John!"

The only answer is the door being closed rather forcefully.

Sherlock rubs his eyes which burn with fatigue, feeling uneasy. He hasn´t expected John to react so strongly, but maybe it´s been overdue. John has been kind and patient with him all the time, never complaining once. Maybe it´s good that he´s blowing off some steam, an inner voice tells him. But another voice is worried that John might leave, finally having had enough. That particular voice makes itself heard so loudly that it propels Sherlock out of his chair and the room; he needs to walk, to move a little in order to distract himself.

* * *

John regrets his harsh reaction as soon as he arrives in his room. He throws the newspaper onto his bed and crosses his arms, walking up and down a few times; nothing but wounded pride, that outburst, and he wasn´t very fair. Sherlock has made a decision back then, but what is more important is the present, isn´t it? And in the present, Sherlock has made it very clear that he wants John around, close by at that.

A sudden longing tugs at John´s heart, almost physically painful; Sherlock looked so damn adorable just now as he sat huddled into the chair, asleep, that John would have loved to touch him, just to feel his warmth and have Sherlock´s scent on his own skin. He frowns a little because the notion isn´t by half as alien as it should be. He looks into the mirror on the dresser and wonders, once more, what has changed. Maybe he is bisexual but simply hasn´t noticed before? But how can one not notice something like that?

No, he decides, that´s not it. He definitely would have noticed.

He shakes his head; he needs to get some air. He has too much to think about to read the paper now, and he doesn´t feel like staying put. He looks around for his jacket and only now remembers that it´s still in Sherlock´s room. With a resigned huff, he opens the wardrobe; a thick cardigan might do as well. If he went back now, it´d send the wrong signals.

It´s rather chilly outside, so John increases his pace as he walks down the drive. He doesn´t even know where he is going until he reaches the nearest tube station.

Sherlock has been in the garden for a while, walking around the rosarium despite the cold wind which is blowing today. He has been too agitated to stay inside, and the gallery has meanwhile begun to bore him to no end.

He feels frozen once he gets back inside; pulling the blanket off the sofa, he lies down on the bed and huddles in on himself, still not much closer to a solution. Of course John would have wanted to be involved, they have already talked about it. But when it had become clear what Moriarty was very likely expecting of him, Sherlock _hadn´t_ had an awful lot of choices, much less an awful lot of time.

It had been difficult to ask Molly; even he had realized how badly he was treating her, using her feelings for him to get her to help. And yet there wasn´t anything else he could have done, even in hindsight. He didn´t only need someone who was willing to do anything for him, he also needed someone with unlimited access to the morgue and the knowledge of certain materials. And that was that.

Sherlock rubs his hands in order to warm them and pulls the blanket further up; he should have worn his coat outside. He should have stopped John from leaving.

His thoughts briefly wander to Lestrade and the talk with Mycroft, but that doesn´t hold his interest for long. Exhausted from his thoughts running in circles once more and still feeling cold, he closes his eyes.

He sleeps through noon and the following hours, waking up around five. He reluctantly gets up to go to the loo, then burrows back into the cocoon which the blanket provides. He doesn´t feel like staying up and playing the violin or doing anything else.

He tries his Mind Palace and is so deeply immersed after a while that he barely registers when the door opens. It´s probably the butler, who has already peeked in once, for whichever reasons.

This time however, it´s John, who has just come back from his spontaneous outing. He has been to the Natural History Museum, one of his favourite places in London except maybe on a weekend when it´s overly crowded and the queues to get in are insane; he has always loved the thousand little treasures one can find there, along with the secret star, the diplodocus skeleton which has affectionately been named 'Dippy'.

Again, he felt misplaced among all the people; he looked into faces and met gazes but didn´t even register them while his thoughts were revolving around his feelings for Sherlock. He has been sitting on a bench and staring at Mary Anning´s ichthyosaurs for two hours, and the beasts have been staring back at him balefully. At least you´re still alive, they seemed to say. At least you´re free to move around.

John wondered what his sister would say if she knew about his predicament. How can he allow his feelings to take him into a seemingly wrong direction? Wouldn´t that mean to lead Sherlock on, to feign interest when he couldn´t really imagine a full-blown physical relationship with another man? But was that something Sherlock would want at all? But hasn´t he, John, been encouraging Sherlock recently? And how could he not?

When he left the museum, he was still at the same loss as before.

* * *

John immediately spots the Sherlock-shaped heap on the bed as he now comes in and cautiously approaches it. "Sherlock," he says gently, putting one hand on his friend´s shoulder. Sherlock flinches, being startled out of his thoughts, and opens his eyes in alarm. He calms when he recognizes John, but his expression is miserable, because he doesn´t know how to apologize for something he can´t apologize for.

And this is John standing in front of him, the kindest soul Sherlock knows and the one person he can´t seem to be without.

John, reading his thoughts as easily as though their roles were reversed, feels the rest of his own resistance melt.

And suddenly, everything seems clear. Maybe one doesn´t have to be bisexual or even gay to care for someone as much as he cares for Sherlock, he thinks, because what he feels right now as he returns the other´s gaze is pure, unadultered love. Nothing´s wrong about it. There´s also protectiveness and the wish to never hurt Sherlock again, or have anyone else hurting him. He has had these feelings before of course, but not nearly as strong.

Unthinkingly, he bends down and crawls onto the bed, then he winds his arms around Sherlock and pulls him half into his lap, holding on to him as though holding on to dear life. His heartrate has picked up considerably, and it still seems to increase as Sherlock tentatively wraps his own arms around John and returns the embrace. John buries his nose in Sherlock´s neck and inhales his scent, the dark curls tickling his nose, and suddenly feels overwhelmingly and absurdly happy. This is Sherlock in his arms, Sherlock who has become the most important person in his life. Significant other, one might say.

John holds him close for an unaccounted amount of time, basking in the feeling of warmth which spreads throughout him. At one point, he can feel his body beginning to protest again, and without letting go of Sherlock, he spreads out next to him, so that they are still wrapped around each other. His heart is still beating wildly, and he can feel that Sherlock´s is mirroring it. Relief is making itself known somewhere in his mind, relief about his feelings apparently being reciprocated, because Sherlock is nuzzling his face against John´s skin, and it feels marvellous.

"I´m sorry," John whispers, pressing a kiss on Sherlock´s temple. "I was unreasonable."

Sherlock huddles into John´s warmth; he has been cold all afternoon, despite the blanket. And now he feels dizzy with the notion that it´s John who´s holding him, who has come back to him of his own free will, and who feels so incredibly good. John, whom he never wants to cause any pain again.

" _I´m_ sorry," he mutters, "for everything."

"I know," John murmurs, stroking Sherlock´s cheek with the back of his fingers. A thousand questions are still running through John´s mind, and Sherlock is wondering if this will last. But for the moment, there´s nothing more to say; they are content to just lie there and share their warmth and their heartbeats, the rhythm of their breathing, the knowledge that they have both arrived exactly where they want to be.

**To Be Continued  
**

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	11. The Heart Asks Pleasure First

 

 

**Hazard Control  
**

 

Part 11: The Heart Asks Pleasure First

 

 

As the afternoon merges into evening, daylight becomes dusk, then darkness. Neither John nor Sherlock have fallen asleep, because staying awake is far too intriguing. Sherlock blinks; he can feel John´s mouth against his skin from time to time, pressing gentle kisses on his forehead, his temple, even his hair; it seems John is unable to contain his affection, and Sherlock finds he likes it.

Nothing can happen to him as long as John is holding him like this, the world isn't so desolate a place any longer. John smells of home, and Sherlock thinks he can feel his strength.

"You're like a knight," Sherlock murmurs, hot breath ghosting over John's skin. The doctor, who's been dozing, smiles sleepily: "A knight?"

"Strong... valiant... loyal..."

"Okay," John chuckles, "I got it. What does that make you?"

"A king, naturally."

Another chuckle. "A good king, I presume?"

"A just king. I'd keep some dungeons, though."

"For the likes of Anderson."

"Oh no. Anderson's got the tar and feathers coming."

John grins at the thought.

Sherlock however thinks of the one time that Moriarty likened Lestrade to a king; an involuntary shudder runs through his body. Not because he's intimidated by Moriarty, he never was, but because it happened when all the dark things were still lying ahead of him.

It's like standing on the edge of an enchanted forest one has just escaped and looking back into the murky gloom, knowing full well that the wolves and goblins are still there. He briefly wonders where this image has come from, but John, who has noticed how he has shivered violently for a second, asks him what is wrong.

"Moriarty," Sherlock mutters; John tenses immediately. "What about him?" he asks, almost timidly.

Sherlock's voice is very soft as he tells John about the taxi ride and the story Moriarty had come up with. Another tremor runs through him, which he finds terribly annoying. But John gently runs one hand up and down his back in a soothing motion. "He really knew how to pull your strings," he murmurs. Predictably, Sherlock bristles.

"Come on," John teases, "Sir Boast-a-lot?"

"Not funny," Sherlock mutters, but at least he doesn't try to pull away. "And I'd rather be king anyway." It's an attempt to make light out of it, but John can tell he's still unsettled.

"What keeps bothering you about it?" he asks quietly, and Sherlock marvels at how well John knows him.

"He had people everywhere," he says, dreading his own words even now, "the cab incident only shows how well-supplied he was with everything. The term ´network´ is very appropriate. What if I overlooked something? Someone? What if it's not safe yet?"

John closes his eyes, because the notion that Sherlock might not be out of danger yet is too horrible to bear. He can't lose him; one day, when they will both be old, he will have to face something like that, one of them will have to go, but not now, not soon, not at all in the foreseeable future. He needs Sherlock in his life.

"Then we will deal with it," he said, "and when I say ´we´ I mean you _and_ me." His hand wanders from Sherlock´s back up to his neck, threading the tips of his fingers through the curls. "But I honestly can't imagine that you have overlooked something, Sherlock," he says, "Because you're you. You don't make mistakes like that."

The warm weight which consists of 100% consulting detective and is resting comfortably against John increases a little as Sherlock presses even closer against him, causing John to reinforce his hold: "Stop worrying," he murmurs against Sherlock's temple. "I've got you." It's true, Sherlock realizes; John is not going to stand by and let anything happen to Sherlock if he can avoid it. And he's determined to.

"John," Sherlock says, and it sounds a little choked, which makes it all the more real, "I love you." His heart beats wildly again, because he still doesn't know what they are, and they haven't talked about it yet. Maybe this, huddling together under a blanket in a strange, fascinating and intimate way still doesn't mean that John wants to be together with him; maybe it's a one-time thing, born out of sentiment.

Maybe Sherlock's been rash to say it out loud, and he never thought he'd ever be able to do so anyway, but with John, it's been surprisingly easy because it's true. The words were out before he could stop himself, overwhelmed by his emotions. _Show him how you feel._

John hesitates and Sherlock feels his stomach drop; not good, he thinks, beginning to tremble, definitely not good. But then John trembles as well, and his voice is hoarse and deep as he answers, slowly drawing out each word: "I don't know how you did that, Sherlock, but I think I damn well love you too."

For a moment, Sherlock forgets to breathe entirely. The sky has not come crashing down on him, on the contrary; he feels high, soaring above the clouds, liberated of everything which has been threatening and suffocating him. He has only experienced something similar once, namely while he was using drugs. But this is infinitely better; he is in control of himself, no chemicals are influencing his behaviour apart from his own adrenaline.

They are both shaking now, overhwelmed by the improbability and immensity of their situation.

The world as we know it has ended, John thinks, bedazzled, but actually that's not quite right- he has probably loved Sherlock for most of their time together in one form or another. His feelings haven't changed, only grown stronger until he realized what was going on.

And now he can feel Sherlock's slender fingers on his cheeks, touching him ever so lightly, trembling and exploring: " _John_." Only Sherlock can say his name in such a fashion, making it sound like a caress, like he, John, is all Sherlock needs.

It occurs to John that Sherlock has said his name like that hundreds of times: love, it seems, or at least attraction, has apparently been all around. He frowns at the cheesiness of this thought, but Harry always said that all the songs make sense when you are, well, in love. It seems to be true, then.

Happiness wells up in him once more and he smiles, knowing that Sherlock can feel it beneath his fingertips: "I love you," he repeats, so low it's barely above a whisper, "so much."

* * *

They do get up at one point, though it's with reluctance that they disentangle themselves from each other. But John needs to go to the bathroom, and they have both gotten hungry as well.

"Do you think the cook's still there?" John asks, but Sherlock shrugs: "We can go to the kitchen to find out."

The kitchen is deserted, but the fridge is well-stocked. "I can rustle us something up," John says, "won't take too long. Some scrambled eggs on toast, maybe?" He loves those. Sherlock doesn't care what he eats, so he agrees; he leans against the worktop and watches John preparing the food, still feeling the other's warmth.

John glances at him from time to time, and there's a smile in his eyes whenever he does. Sherlock fiddles with a wooden spoon: "Do you think we can make it work?" he asks, out of the blue, his voice soft and as deep as it gets.

"It?"

"This... us. I don't know what to call it."

John thinks that Sherlock being this insecure is adorable, but wisely doesn't say so.

"It doesn't matter what we call it." he replies. "It's you and me, isn't it?" He is a little high-strung himself now, because he can't quite believe what has happened yet. Nothing seems certain.

"Yes," Sherlock nods, absent-mindedly.

"Out with it," John says, partly because he wants to hide his own nervousness, partly because he can tell that Sherlock's still pondering.

Sherlock sounds forlorn: "I have never done this. I have never had... a relationship. What if I can't do it?"

A cold shudder runs down John's spine, which he has to ignore for the time being. He can't chicken out now, they need to get to the heart of this. He can't lose what he just started to have.

With a slightly shaking hand, he puts down the egg whisk he has been holding and turns towards Sherlock: "Really, never?" he asks quietly. "That makes me special."

"You _are_ special." Sherlock's tone is serious. "And you deserve to be treated well. What if I insult you too much? If I can't be what you need? You know I'm different from other people, and once I'll be working again, I might... put you out. Say the wrong things, or... just be myself."

John takes the spoon out of Sherlock's hands and puts it aside, then wraps his own hands around the long, pale fingers: "You're not as horrible as you seem to think," he says, seriously. "And I've been living together with you for quite some time, in case you forgot. I know who you are, and that's the person I want to be with."

Sherlock's regards him almost timidly. "What if I hurt you?"

"Then Harry will come after you."

For a moment, Sherlock looks startled until he realizes that John's been joking.

"How can you be this calm?" he asks.

"I'm not," John replies, "I really am not, I... I feel dizzy and lightheaded and shaky because of all this. I am not taking it lightly, Sherlock, because you're my best friend and I know that a relationship will change everything. But..." he fumbles for the right words, "I can't go back to being just friends either."

"And this isn't too sudden?" Especially after Mrs Hudson has told him not to rush anything.

"So much for you and your brilliance," John says drily. "Or maybe _I´m_ just that good."

Sherlock stares at him: " _Oh_."

And then things are starting to fall into place. The way John´s gaze usually softened when alighting on Sherlock, the neverending patience, the concern, the disappointment when Sherlock had said something not good. All those things have been there long before Moriarty made him step off a roof. Sherlock has been aware, on some abstract level, of John's affection, but he has never understood it to be more. To be fair, John apparently didn't either, but Mrs Hudson's obviously been right in her assessment of the situation.

"Come here, silly," John says, pulling him close and wrapping his arms around him, "do you even have to ask?"

Sherlock leans into the embrace and brings his own arms up around John's shoulder and his midriff; this is how it's going to be from now on, he realizes with a funny little jolt of his stomach, they can touch each other like this whenever they feel like it, no excuses needed. Well, that's not too bad.

* * *

Without having to talk about it, they both return to Sherlock's room after the meal. It's nine o'clock and neither of them feels like sleeping already, so they retreat to the sofa, where Sherlock stretches out and rests his head on John's thigh.

They watch another episode of _Who Wants To Be a Millionaire_ , but this time, John hardly registers what's going on while Sherlock is muttering something about imbeciles. His hand is on Sherlock's shoulder as usual, but his whole body tingles with excitement because everything's changed. Sherlock's his now, and that thought makes him want to sing and dance.

"John," Sherlock asks, after the show is over and the doctor has switched off the TV, "stay with me tonight."

Immediately, John's stomach is full of butterflies again.

"I'd love to," he murmurs, carding his fingers through Sherlock's hair, playing with the fine curls.

"I don't mean-" Sherlock breaks off.

"I know," John seeks to reassure him, "me neither." Sex is an issue they're going to have to tackle at one point, but not now. They haven't even kissed yet, after all.

Momentarily, all John wants is to be close to Sherlock.

This afternoon under the blanket, they have been fully dressed, but it's an entirely different sensation to crawl under the sheets in their pyjamas together. However, neither of them hesitates to seek each other's arms again.

John can feel Sherlock's body through the comparatively thin layers of cloth between them and thinks it's marvellous; it's not comparable to that of a woman's, obviously, but there are still angles and softness and the sensation of a chest and a belly moving in sync with his own. There's warmth and heartbeats and entangled legs, delicate and intimate. Though John doubts he'll be able to fall asleep like that, it doesn't take long for him to doze off.

* * *

 

He wakes up early while the twilight of dawn is still present in the room. For a moment, he blinks, staring up at the bedcurtains in the profound relief that this hasn't been a dream. He is lying on his back, no longer entwined with Sherlock, but he can feel him close by, and when he turns his head towards him, Sherlock is there. He is lying on his side and doesn't look entirely awake yet, but it seems that he's been watching John.

A smile steals into the detective's eyes as the other man meets his gaze. Wordlessly, he reaches out and puts his hand on John's cheek: "I always thought love was nothing but a chemical defect," he murmurs, "but it seems I was wrong."

John smiles mischievously: "I'm sorry, I think I've misheard just now," he says, "could you say that again?"

"Not funny."

John presses his cheek against Sherlock's hand without breaking their gaze: "Sorry, love," he murmurs, but he still seems amused. A shudder runs down Sherlock's spine at the term, and he isn't really annoyed; John's eyes are too warm and affectionate to take the jest serious.

"You're amazing," he hears himself say; really, the words just seem to pour out of him these days.

John beams at him; apparently, it was a good thing to say. His eyes roam over the doctor's face, the shape of his mouth, the indeterminable blue of his eyes; not in a million years he could say what exactly it is about it that fascinates him, but he would like to wake up like this every day, with John's beloved features to look at. An admittedly soppy characterization of the situation, but an accurate one.

He is pulled out of these thoughts when John scoots closer towards him, nuzzling his nose against Sherlock's before gently kissing him. It's hardly more than a gentle brush of his lips, but Sherlock, who has closed his eyes at the contact, thinks it felt brilliant. And then John is doing it again, a little more firmly this time, and Sherlock kisses back. It's surprisingly easy and feels wonderful, not nearly as animalistic as he's imagined. Not repulsive at all. John's mouth is warm and soft and tender, and there's a thrill to being this close to him, doing something which requires so much trust and love.

* * *

It doesn't go unnoticed by Mycroft that John has taken to sleeping in Sherlock's room. He has been expecting it, of course, and much earlier at that, but for all his brilliance, his brother sometimes is remarkably slow on the uptake; usually, when emotions are involved. Only a fool would not have noticed the chemistry between Sherlock and John Watson; only a blind person could not have seen the looks that the good doctor has given the detective whenever he felt unobserved.

At first, Mycroft had put it down to something akin canine devotion, but he has learned a thing or two about John in the meantime. If Sherlock ordered John to jump, the doctor wouldn't ask how high and then do it, he isn't as simple as that. He would probably argue with Sherlock about it, and after the second or third time, he'd at least consider it, as long as he'd see a reason for it.

Mycroft is secretly impressed by the way John handles his brother; he is the only person who is allowed to breach Sherlock's most personal boundaries, and Sherlock still respects him. Values him, for heaven's sake, possibly even loves him. Mycroft smiles involuntarily; he is glad that his brother has found someone who is prepared to take him on, him and all of his quirks. John means the end of Sherlock's loneliness; for him, his brother even seems to be prepared to give up his status of "being married to his work", and therefore Mycroft appreciates him.

 

And decides to seek his advice. He catches John one early evening, as he is browsing through the shelves in the library; he has kept up reading to Sherlock, which they both enjoy, and they are out of books. The police's statement about Sherlock being innocent has been released that day, and John is tired of newspapers.

"A word, John," Mycroft says upon entering the room, and gestures towards the armchairs. "If you please."

John sits down with the vague suspicion that this is not about the press, but about Sherlock's and his relationship- _The Talk_ , as people call it.

"Are you going to tell me that you'll have my head if I ever hurt Sherlock?" he asks.

"Oh, I don't think I even have to," Mycroft smiles that uncanny smile of his, which seems perfectly friendly and non-committal on the surface, but which gives John an uneasy feeling nevertheless. "Since you know perfectly well what I'm capable of."

"Yeah, I think I do. So what was it you wanted?"

He doesn't seem intimidated in the least. Good. Mycroft wants him to listen.

"You do remember the last time when you came to visit me at the Diogenes Club," he says.

John immediately bristles, but he tries not to let it on. "The day before... yeah. I do remember that."

"I have made a mistake," Mycroft states, rather bluntly. "I am aware that it was fatuitous of me to provide James Moriarty with the information that he obtained from me."

John folds his arms in front of his chest and waits for him to continue; the way he purses his lips tells Mycroft that he has not forgiven him about that.

"I was going to tell Sherlock the truth about it and apologize," the older Holmes quickly continues, "but now I'm not so sure if I should."

John stares at him and for the umpteenth time wonders how anyone can be so stiff. But at least Mycroft is considerate of Sherlock's wellbeing. And he is perfectly aware that Sherlock will never forgive him; it would forever destroy the newly achieved peace between the brothers, which is still fragile anyway. What's worse, though, is that Sherlock would probably lose the feeling of safety that this house is providing. And John can't allow that to happen. As long as Sherlock can't return to Baker Street yet, they need the shelter of this place, more than anything. Sherlock's probably irrational fear that maybe Moriarty's web isn't completely destroyed yet is still ghosting through John's mind.

"You will have to live with it then. If you tell him," he says, slowly and to some extent threateningly, "I am going to punch the living daylights out of you."

Mycroft looks taken aback for a moment, but he's getting his composure back quite quickly: "Well. I shall not say a word, then." He sits up straighter and squares his shoulders before meeting John's gaze again: "I am truly sorry about it, John," he says, his voice a lot less confident than usual. "I have been tremendously stupid."

"Yes," John nods, "yes, you bloody well have." He gets to his feet: "But it seems you have learned from your mistakes." With a nod, he walks out of the room, back stiff, head up high, book search forgotten.

Mycroft sits in the armchair a little dumbfounded, feeling as though he's just escaped an audience with the headmaster.

* * *

John is still fuming when he enters what he increasingly often calls "their" room. After that first day and night, it has quickly become clear that neither Sherlock nor he were going to change their minds about their situation, and he has not slept in his own room once since.

He is so blissfully happy that it's ridiculous, really; even now that he is angry about Mycroft, he just needs to think of Sherlock and the butterflies are there again, carrying him along. He doesn't know if he can ever forgive the older Holmes for what he did, but it's true that he thinks Mycroft has tried to make up for his mistake. And he wants Sherlock to get along with his brother, after all.

He can hear water running in the bathroom and goes to investigate; Sherlock is sitting on the edge of the tub, which is slowly beginning to fill. He is still fully dressed and is watching the water swirling about.

"I'm cold," he states in a low voice, looking up as John comes in.

They have spent the afternoon reading what the papers have to say about the surprising news; a lot of the articles were rather annoying, claiming that they had known all along. Some were even quoting the "I believe in Sherlock Holmes" movement which has developed and which has gained a surprisingly large number of followers. John is aware that he has unintentionally started it with the last blog entry he has ever written, on the day of Sherlock's funeral: he had simply stated that he believed in Sherlock Holmes and had not looked at his blog once since then. But there were enough people who had followed his blog with interest up to that point, after all, and who had not turned with the press when Sherlock had been declared a fraud.

John closes the distance between them and wraps his arms around Sherlock's shoulders, who leans his head against John's belly.

"Are you all right?" he asks. Maybe it's just a hunch, maybe he's seen something in John's face. It is after all rare for him to miss something.

"Yes," John gently reinforces his grip. "I am." _Now I am_ , he adds in the privacy of his mind.

Sherlock would have loved to ask John to join him in the tub, but they haven't even been nude together yet, and it'd feel awkward. Of course John has seen him naked before and has even helped to dress and undress him while he was ill, but somehow that's different.

The hot water is a blessing though his cold toes ache fiercely for a few minutes. He hadn't noticed how cold he was at first, despite sitting next to John on the sofa and having a fire in the fireplace; when John had gone to the library, he had begun to shiver and had briefly considered crawling into bed to warm up, but the tub seemed to be the more attractive alternative.

He lies back and calls for John, who has gone to stoke the fire.

"Coming," the doctor closes the door behind him. "just wanted to make sure the room stays warm."

For me, Sherlock realizes.

"Did you find a book?" he asks, peering over the tub.

"No. Mycroft interrupted me."

"What did he want?" A frown is visible.

"Talk. You know, of the 'I'll break every single bone in your body if you hurt my brother' kind."

The frown deepens. "Really?"

"Well, he may have used other words."

"Hm."

Sherlock contemplates this for a while. It's needless to ask how Mycroft knew about them in the first place; he always does.

"I hope you told him that I'd do the same to him if he laid one finger on you," he says after a while.

John smirks; Mycroft is bound to know _that_. "I don't think that's necessary. He knows you, after all." But it is good to hear it from Sherlock. He feels even more guilty about not telling the truth, but on the other hand, the truth would make Sherlock miserable, and he can't have that.

 

His phone buzzes in his pocket; it's Harry. He has seen this coming once the truth about Sherlock's out, but he still isn't prepared to talk to her. He is going to call her later, maybe tomorrow. He needs a little more time to think about what to say precisely.

"Why aren't you answering it?" Sherlock inquires.

"It's Harry. I'm not in the mood."

Sherlock remains silent for a while: "She is calling you because of the articles. And you know that talking about the topic will inevitably lead to your tellling her about us. Which you dread, because you don't know how to explain it."

"That's about right," John concedes. "And I don't even know what to call you."

"The name's Sherlock."

"Haha, yes. You know what I mean. How am I going to introduce you if we meet someone I know?"

"This is Sherlock?"

"Yes, but... what if I want to make it clear that we're together?"

"This is Sherlock and we're together. It's very easy, actually."

"Not what I had in mind."

"What did you have in mind then?"

"I don't know... this is my boyfriend?"

"Stupid. We're not _boys_."

"Manfriend then."

"Shut up."

"Partner."

"Sounds like we are running a company."

"Significant other."

"Isn't that implied anyway?"

John sighs. "Lover."

"Too technical."

"Fine... _love_."

"Hm. Yes."

"Really?"

"It's accurate, isn't it? And it's better than the others."

"Oh, I wasn't done yet. There's also darling, honey, sugar, babycakes, baby- stop that!" A gush of water has hit him square in the face. He grabs a towel and dries himself off: "So how _am_ I going to introduce you? This is Sherlock, my love?"

"Why do you have to introduce me at all? I'm perfectly cabable of doing that myself."

"Yes, but what if I want to?" There's so much warmth in his eyes again.

"Fine. If you absolutely have to, introduce me as your boyfriend."

John can't keep himself from grinning like mad when he crouches down in front of the tub and rests his arms on the rim: "Who are you and what have you done to Sherlock?"

Sherlock's gaze is soft as he beholds John for a moment, affection evident in his features: "I don't know. It seems that someone has taken him and given him a heart."

**To Be Continued  
**

Thank you for reading! **  
**

Please leave some feedback.


	12. Qanik

 

Thank you all for reading! This chapter contains a teensy bit of intimacy (nothing graphic and easily missed if you blink).

Enjoy!

 

**Hazard Control  
**

 

Part 12: Qanik

 

 

Later, when Sherlock's curls are still damp and his fingertips are still wrinkly, he and John are lying on the bed together, which is their second favourite place in this room by mutual if silent agreement.

"Would you like me to read to you?" John asks because it's too early to go to sleep yet, and Sherlock nods: "But no more papers." he mutters. John buries his nose in his hair, taking in the smell of shampoo and the underlying scent which is purely Sherlock.

"Should I look in the library again?"

He can feel that Sherlock tenses ever so minutely before he speaks: "No need. Look in there." He indicates another cupboard.

When John opens it, he finds that it's full of books.

"She loved books," Sherlock says, and his voice is a little strained. He gets up from the bed and comes to stand next to John, his gaze roaming over the volumes which are lined up neatly in front of them. He reaches for a rather thick one and hands it to John: "This is the last one she read."

John understands how much it's taking out of Sherlock to tell him this, to look into the cupboard at all. He glances at the book in his hands: "Smilla's Sense of Snow." He thinks he's seen the movie, a long time ago.

"Okay," he says, trying to sound lightly, and takes Sherlock's hand: "Come here."

He leans back against the headboard with Sherlock lying between his legs, head on John's chest. The doctor can tell that Sherlock tries not to be heavy, and presses a kiss on his curls: "Relax," he murmurs, "I can take your weight."

Hesitantly, Sherlock complies, and the pressure on John's body increases. It's bearable though, and it does feel wonderful at that. This is Sherlock giving himself over completely into John's care once more, but consciously so.

John keeps one arm around Sherlock's shoulders while he holds the book with the other. Turning the pages with one hand is tricky, but manageable; he has learned it during the time he was recovering from his bullet wound and couldn't use both his hands. All one needs is to balance the book so that the pages can be turned with the thumb, and he is quite skilled at that.

"It is freezing," he begins, "an extraordinary -18°C, and it's snowing, and in the language which is no longer mine, the snow is _qanik_ \- big, almost weightless crystals falling in stacks and covering the ground with a layer of pulverized white frost."

He pauses: "I hope I got that right. _Qanik_. Strangely enough, there's no 'u' after the q. I didn't know that was allowed."

"It's common in Greenlandic," Sherlock provides with a hint of impatience, so John reads on. Sherlock usually isn't too interested in fiction, but this story is different; in addition to a number of rather intriguing settings, there is a bit of pathology as well as a complex case involved, and he quite likes the main character. He remembers sneaking into this room when his grandma was in hospital, reading and re-reading parts of the book because it made him feel closer to her, and when he hears John's voice speaking the words he's had in his head for a long time, he feels oddly reassured.

* * *

That night, Sherlock lies awake for hours, listening to John's breathing as he sleeps. His face is relaxed and Sherlock cautiously touches it, tracing the lines around John´s eyes, caressing the soft skin.

He loves everything about John, even his less-than-stylish jumpers, because they are so much a part of him. Which John doesn´t need to know. It doesn't really matter, of course, because Sherlock hardly looks at what his _boyfriend_ is wearing; it's John's presence that has been and still is keeping his attention, the things he exudes: he's always kind, he's mostly alert and paying attention to what's going on around him, he's patient but also stubborn. He is reliable and loyal and sometimes funny, but he won't tolerate too much nonsense, not even from Sherlock.

Who is certain (which gives him a warm feeling in his belly) that in a room with a hundred people John's sole attention first and foremost would be on him. That John would jump into the icy Thames in winter if Sherlock needed him to. That John is never ever willingly going to break his heart. One thing he is also certain about however is that his heart _will_ break if John dies.

Sherlock has often been thinking about death. It's not because he's fascinated by the topic, on the contrary: it frightens him. He isn't sentimental about it when it concerns strangers, but he's seen death in his own family, different kinds of it at that, the unexpected and the slow variation, and he still can't say which one was less dreadful, or maybe there is no less, just different. And no matter how it occurs; even if one had the chance to prepare for it, once the person dies there is a sudden and abrupt hole in the world, irrevocably and painful, caused by an existence which has ceased but which is still present.

Sherlock has been pondering this on the night before his suicide; he had fumbled with the small blue ball, asking himself how on earth he could put John through all of that. It had hurt to know what he was going to do to his friend, but at the same time it had been inevitable. His tears had been real during their talk on the phone, and for a moment, he had wavered, wanting to spare John. Dreading leaving him. But that would have meant his friend's death.

Friend.

Boyfriend.

The warm feeling which spreads in his stomach afresh makes him snap out of these thoughts and concentrate on the sleeping face in front of him. He is convinced that he wouldn't have managed as admirably as John, had their places been inverted. He would have killed himself, preferably with a large dose of cocaine, rather than struggle on pointlessly.

He suddenly feels overcome with a surge of affection for the sleeping man, and can't refrain himself from scooting closer until he can put his arms around John, holding on to him tightly. He buries his nose in John's hair and inhales his scent, and the dread which has been filling him again slowly abates. There's a muffled sigh against his neck and a subtle shifting of muscles as John is leaving sleep: "Sherlock?" he slurs groggily, "you okay?" His voice is thin because he's not entirely awake yet, causing Sherlock to reinforce his grip. John's vulnerability is showing through, and Sherlock can't bear the thought.

He does his best to keep his voice low and calm as he answers:"Yes. I didn't mean to wake you. Go back to sleep."

John murmurs something which sounds like "there are worse ways to be woken", and presses a kiss on Sherlock's shirt, but his breathing immediately deepens again, and soon he is slack in Sherlock's arms: precious, adorable John. The detective thinks that his heart is going to burst with love, and even though he refuses to think about the more scary aspects once more, he can't release his hold on his doctor for a long time.

* * *

John calls Harry on the following morning.

"The papers are full of it," she says without preamble, "how are you feeling about this?"

John has expected such a direct approach, but he still has to subdue a sigh; he should have told her about Sherlock during his visit.

"I'm fine," he says. "It's a little more complicated, actually."

Harry's attention perks up almost audibly. "I'm all ears," she says, and waits for her brother to continue.

For the third time, John tells the story of Sherlock's return. Harry listens without interrupting him. When he has ended, she is silent for a moment; John can hear that she's lighting a cigarette. She inhales deeply before she speaks: "There's more, isn't there?" Her voice is quiet. This is a new Harry, one who has herself under control and who doesn't reprimand him for not saying anything before.

John hesitates; he'd prefer not to do this on the phone, but he doesn't fancy another trip to Nottingham either.

"Things have changed quite a bit," he says, "or maybe not, I don't know. Sherlock and I... we're together now." It's bloody amazing to say it out loud.

After a few seconds, Harry laughs.

"What's so funny?"

"Nothing. I'm just trying to imagine what Mum and Dad would say. First me, then you."

"I'm not gay."

"No, of course not. You're in love with a guy, but you're straight as a dart."

"That's not what I meant. I meant that I don't feel attracted to other men in general. Only... him."

"And you're sure that it's not just... infatuation now that he's back?"

"Yes, I'm sure."

"Hm."

"Look- it doesn't matter what I am. I... love him. I don't ever want to be without him again. Touching him is like... like breathing."

"So he's good in bed?"

"Are you deliberately misunderstanding me? We didn't even have sex yet."

"Oh. All right, it _is_ love, then."

John doesn't like Harry's tone. She's gone from quiet to mocking, which in the past has usually led to rather unpleasant arguments.

"It is love," he says with all the calmness he can muster, because he feels it's important to drive this point home. "And it's reciprocated, if that's going to be your next question."

"Calm down, I´m not criticizing you," Harry replies, "but what if he disappears again?"

"He won't."

"You can't know that."

"Why are you saying this?"

"Because I find it hard to believe that you trust a man who's pulled a stunt like that on you."

"Didn't I just tell you why he did it?"

"Oh yes, he had a very noble reason, hadn't he? Too bad that you had to suffer through ten months of misery nevertheless. Why couldn't he have told you earlier? Why did he let you believe he was dead? I'm sorry, John, but that doesn't sound very endearing to me."

John doesn't realize he's making a fist with his free hand. "It was too dangerous," he says, "he didn't want to risk my life."

Harry snorts: "He's a regular Prince Valiant."

"I won't listen to you any longer if you keep insulting him," John warns her. "You don't know him, you don't know what you are talking about."

"I know that you hardly ate or slept for weeks after he had jumped. You looked like shit and sounded as though you were dead too. You were fucking drained of life, John. Don't tell me you've forgotten that just because he's back and it's all bliss now."

John feels tired all of a sudden. He pinches the bridge of his nose, closing his eyes for a moment: "I never said what he did was right. But I do understand his motives. And he's apologized for it."

His last words elicit another snort from his sister: "Really. And that makes it all better?"

"It does for me."

They are silent for a moment.

"I have to go now," John eventually says.

Maybe Harry has heard the disappointment in his voice, or maybe she's relenting: "John," she says with a much softer voice. "Take care of yourself."

"I will," he murmurs, and for a moment wishes she was here, though he's actually glad she isn't; it's like his moment of weakness at her party, too fleeting and inconsistent to be of value.

* * *

 

He sits on the bed motionlessly for several minutes, unsure what's bothering him more, Harry's disapproval or her reasons for it. He was honest when he assured Sherlock that he understood. Of course it didn't make it all better, but it made it a little easier, a differentiation he didn't bother to explain to his sister; not while she was being difficult.

John knows that he will never be able to get rid of the pictures. He can hear Sherlock's voice in his head: " _you´re still carrying it with you._ " And if he is honest with himself, he still gets angry when he thinks about it, which is why he tries not to.

He wants to conjure up Sherlock's voice: " _I wish I hadn't caused you so much pain._ " but it is drowned out by Harry's words which keep coming back to him: " _You were fucking drained of life_."

Which seems a very accurate way to describe his state after Sherlock had jumped. Those first days are blurring together now, but he had been thrown completely out off kilter. He had found himself on the sofa most of the time, unable to move; trying to continue with his daily routine would have made it real. The sofa had been like an island, the only safe place in a vast ocean full of sharks; he had allowed himself to get lost in time on it, sleeping irregularly, eating nothing, drinking only when the thirst became too much, and mostly from the tap.

He can still feel the sinking sensation of dread he experienced every time after waking up and realizing that it hadn't been a nightmare and Sherlock really was gone. That actually never stopped; even months later, it could catch him by surprise. Whenever there were moments of normalcy during which he momentarily forgot, they were ended by the harsh realization that he couldn't tell Sherlock about it, that Sherlock would never see this or that, or that he wouldn't be going home to Baker Street because living there had become impossible.

He rubs his eyes and finds that his hand is trembling.

* * *

When he returns to their room a while later, he still has conflicting feelings. Sherlock is pacing around the room with a moleskin notebook; he has indeed been taking notes during his time abroad, and he has been reading through them, trying to discern whether he hasn't overlooked something. John half expects the other man to ignore his presence, just as he was wont to when he was thinking, but when he hears him enter, Sherlock turns towards him, and his previously strained expression fades into something much softer. While John wonders if he'll ever get used to it, his anger is already vanishing.

It shouldn't be so easy, but one look from Sherlock and he is ready to forgive anything. Well, almost anything.

The detective's eyes are roaming over him: "She didn't take it well," he says, and the part of John which consists of his eternal inner child wants him to say "amazing".

John however just shrugs: "Your first impression of one another was mutually bad."

"And she thinks I'm not worthy of you because of what I did." Of course he'd cut to the quick.

"Yes." John heaves a sigh. "And before you start apologizing again, let me assure you that she'll come round. Though I don't need her approval."

"She's your family."

"You are my family." John is surprising himself with this, but the words are out before he can catch himself.

Sherlock's breath hitches almost imperceptibly, and for an endless moment they are just standing there and looking at each other, stunned. And then, quite suddenly, Sherlock's legs give out under him. He finds himself in a heap on the floor, staring confusedly at John who's there in an instant, kneeling down in front of him: " _Sherlock_."

"I'm fine," Sherlock all but babbles, not entirely sure what has just happened, and shakes his head as though trying to clear it. Maybe he's overdone it this morning, or maybe John's words have had such an impact on him. He is Sherlock Holmes, consulting detective, genius, freak, temporary fraud, brother of Mycroft by blood relation. And now apparently he's family to John.

His former self would probably have agreed with Mycroft that this isn't but another form of sentiment, but his current self disagrees- it's so much more. The meaning of this has literally thrown him off his feet, and as he looks at John now, he doesn't know what to say. "Thank you," he eventually mutters, still slightly off kilter. "That... it's..."

The look with which John regards him is bordering on anxious. He has grabbed Sherlock's wrist to take his pulse, and now Sherlock turns his hand to take John's, pulling him closer.

"What are you doing?" John demands, but doesn't resist until they are face to face.

"You really consider me family," Sherlock says, and he suddenly looks happy. "Chosen family."

John nods:"You're the one I want to turn to if something happens. And I want you to be there, whatever is going on. Always."

Sherlock leans his cheek against John's; the feeling of belonging to someone is burning bright and pleasant in his chest.

"I'll try," he promises.

John's free hand wanders up into his hair, sending a pleasant shiver down Sherlock's spine. John's fingers find Sherlock's cheek, caressing and tenderly nudging at his head until their mouths are together and they are kissing. It's still got the breathtaking feeling of something completely new and sensational; for Sherlock, because it is new to him, for John, because every single kiss he's ever had seems to pale in comparison. He feels electric, on fire, ecstatic, but at the same time entirely calm because nothing can go wrong with this.

He doesn't consciously scramble to his feet, but when he realizes that he is getting up and pulling an unresisting Sherlock with him, he begins to shake a little. He can't stop though, it is like he has lost control over himself as he gently pushes Sherlock down onto the bed and crawls on top of him. He is careful not to put his full weight into it, but Sherlock pulls him close, impatiently, and John can feel him shiver delicately as they continue to kiss, tenderly, deeply, with a hunger that hasn't been there before. Their first kisses were about getting to know each other, mapping strange territory. This is different; John wants more, and from the way not only his own but also Sherlock's body responds, it seems that the want is mutual.

Nevertheless, John feels unbelievably daring when his hand disappears under Sherlock's jumper, wandering over Sherlock's chest, his belly, his hip.

Even though John is not touching his flesh, Sherlock shivers delicately, closing his eyes for a few seconds.

Marvellous, John thinks, another side of the great detective which is yet unknown to him, a side he'd like to explore. With trembling fingers, John opens the topmost shirt button, half expecting Sherlock to stop him, but he doesn't, on the contrary: "Don't stop," he murmurs so low that his baritone reverberates through John's own chest, sending a shiver down John's own spine.

"You're precious," John whispers, leaning in for another kiss. Right now, Sherlock is nothing but his, warm and welcoming.

Sherlock doesn´t think he´s ever been touched like this. He remembers how his mother occasionally cuddled him, and how he snuggled up on his grandma´s lap. He still knows how Mycroft used to lift him up and carry him around on his hip.

But none of it is even remotely comparable to this, John´s gentle touch. John´s scent all around him. The love in John´s eyes as he looks at Sherlock, drinking him in. Considering him family. It seems that Sherlock has been wrong about most things when it came to relationships, but maybe it's not too late to catch up on it. With John, it seems possible. And it's John whose fingers are caressing his skin now, warm and tender. Sherlock isn't even aware that he has closed his eyes; all he wants is for John to continue, to be as close to him as possible.

* * *

Martha Hudson bends down and peeks into her oven; with her hand on her hip, she straightens up again. The weather is going to change, she can feel it. The rain hasn't bothered her much however; ever since she has learned that Sherlock is alive, she feels incredibly lighthearted; getting up in the morning is easier than it has been of late, and in the most unexpected moments she feels the thrill of having something to look forward to, namely her boys returning to the flat above hers.

She has been too alone, the house has been eerily quiet. No matter how much she used to complain about Sherlock's quirks before, she can't wait to have him back. She hopes it won't be too long now, because it inconveniences her to have to go to another shop for her groceries. Yet she does, because she can't risk to run into Angelo just one more time. She couldn't lie to him, now that she is so elated. She glances into the oven once more; the cookies are nearly done. Sherlock rarely eats, but he likes her baking. And he has gotten so dreadfully thin, the poor dear, that she feels the need to feed him up a little.

He has called her on the day before, asking whether she was coming to visit again, and of course she couldn't refuse. He seems different in a way she can't really put a name to; less prickly, maybe. She was outrightly proud when he talked about John with her, something she wouldn't have expected in a million years. Sherlock never confided in anyone, not that directly anyway, but he seems to have gained a new kind of trust. She hopes that the change is permanent; not that she didn't love him before, but it's an actual relief that he is so much more affable.

She hasn't talked to him about his faked suicide and certainly not about the fact that he did it to save her, along with John and Detective Inspector Lestrade. She has thanked him quietly the first time she had seen him, while he had still been too ill to get up. It was a shock, seeing him like that, so frail and not at all up to his usual shape, but he has recovered remarkably in the meantime. He still looks as though one moderate breeze can knock him over, but he's strong. She knows he is. It's strength born out of willpower, of which he has a lot. Especially now that John's with him.

She keeps her fingers crossed for the two, hoping that Sherlock has managed to talk to the doctor. Everyone with a working set of eyes and half a brain can see that they are made for each other; when Sherlock's in the room, John doesn't see anyone else, and Sherlock, as rude as he sometimes is, always makes sure he knows John's whereabouts.

The doctor often complained about Sherlock's more obnoxious habits and that he never bothered to get the groceries. It seemed that the detective let John do most the work in the flat and didn't particularly care about John's needs, but Mrs Hudson has noticed that it wasn't always true. He largely ignored most domestic chores, but he was considerate of John, most of the time, in his own way.

Which is one of the reasons why she has encouraged Sherlock to show the doctor his feelings; she doesn't see the point in dancing around each other much longer, and besides, it'd be nice to tell Mrs Turner about it, who's forever bragging on about her 'married ones'.

Well, Sherlock and John might never get married, but they have belonged together from the first moment on, in her since they have moved into the flat, she has been thinking of them as "them". It has always been "one of the boys" rather than only John or Sherlock, she realizes now. Her stomach gives a little jolt of excitement at the prospect of having them back soon.

Her boys.

**To Be Continued  
**

Please leave some feedback.

**Additional author's note:** the quoted text from "Smilla's Sense of Snow" is from the book of the same title, written by Peter Høeg. It's first been published in the UK in 1993. Assuming that Sherlock has been about nine or ten when his grandma died, which would have been in 1987 or 1988, I disregarded the publication date.

And yes, I did hear Arthur Shappey's voice in my head when John talks about the missing u after the q. =)

 

 


	13. Eyes Wide Closed

This chapter contains another teensy bit of intimacy (still nothing graphic and easily missed if you blink).

Enjoy!

 

**Hazard Control  
**

 

Part 13: Eyes Wide Closed

 

 

Detective Inspector Lestrade has always been of the opinion that people who can't work in a team are loose cannons, unpredictable factors which might endanger the lives of others. He still thinks that's true, but he has had to learn that there are exceptions. There are people who are great in a team but potentially dangerous for individuals nevertheless.

Ever since the fairytale case, as he secretly calls it even though it sounds treacherously harmless, he finds himself doubting his faith in his co-workers, especially Donovan. It probably isn't fair, since Sally Donovan has always had his back if he needed her to, but he can't bring himself to forgive her for what happened.

He tells himself it's probably as much his own fault as anyone else's, since he could have put his foot down to prevent the events which had unfolded upon her accusations, but he is aware that it wouldn't have done Sherlock much good; Donovan had been too convinced of the detective's guilt, and along with that _git_ Anderson she would have gone straight to the Divisional Commander without consulting Lestrade if need be.

Donovan has of course noticed that her boss has been distant lately, and he has made no secret of the fact that he has been mourning for Sherlock Holmes, that he deeply regretted what has happened and didn't believe a word of the slander which had followed. She has watched him brooding over old files, but has not once sought to talk to him about it.

Their relationship has changed from something akin to familial to strictly professional, and even though Sally isn't happy about it, she knows there is nothing she can do. She doesn't quite understand what it is about Sherlock Holmes that has won Lestrade's irrevocable loyalty to the man; he may not have been their culprit after all, but he still was an arrogant sod, too irritating for his own good.

Something about Lestrade has changed now, if very subtly; ever since their statement has been released and the press has been feasting on it, Lestrade seems relieved, somehow. Which Sally finds strange, because it didn't bring the freak back from the dead. But maybe her boss felt he had made up for something, she muses; maybe it has calmed his conscience.

If she is completely honest with herself, she has been having second thoughts about the whole affair from time to time, but they never lasted long. All the evidence had been pointing to Holmes, after all, and if Lestrade hadn't been so _smitten_ with the guy, he'd probably have put two and two together and obtained the warrant of arrest himself.

What Sally can't know is that it's exactly this attitude of hers which made Lestrade cautious around her, and he has repeatedly been considering suggesting her a transfer to another division. Now that he knows the truth about Sherlock, these thoughts are surfacing again, and while he is downright happy about his knewly-gained knowledge, he is rather certain that he doesn't want Donovan around much longer, and certainly not if Sherlock comes back to work on his cases. _When_ he does. Lestrade is determined to make sure of that.

* * *

John slowly floats back to awareness, blinking his eyes open and wondering where, and how, and when before he remembers; it's the middle of the day and he is lying in bed with Sherlock, naked. He tries to ignore the part of him which faintly reminds him that it's neither the time for respectable people to be lazing about nor decent to be doing it in such a fashion, but John isn't bothered in the least.

He is marvelling at the warm body in his arms, the slight snuffling of a dozing Sherlock against his collarbone, the afterglow of having taken the next step. Contentedly, John presses his cheek into the unruly dark curls which have been tickling his skin; yes, other people are working right now. Yes, other people can't allow themselves to luxuriate in their private needs like this. Yes, it's possible that there are cameras somewhere in this room. John couldn't care less. He feels far too happy and there is no other place he'd rather be.

They have slowly undressed each other and taken their time exploring. He has been expecting that Sherlock would be interested by his scar, fascinated by the way it still mirrored the violence of the bullet's impact, but to his surprise, Sherlock had seemed dismayed. He had looked at it for a long moment, then had raised his hand to John's face, wordlessly cupping his cheek with one tender motion. And John had felt loved and cherished.

They didn't get round to _it_ yet, but John is fine with that. They were both on uncharted territory, there was no need to hurry. It was simultaneously alien and not strange at all to touch and feel and taste another man's body.

John was a little timid at first because Sherlock seemed frail in his nakedness, but that was fine because Sherlock was timid as well, if for different reasons. He had never been intimate with anyone before, and to him, it was much more difficult to comprehend what was happening. He felt a little embarrassed about his body's obvious reaction at first, but John didn't seem to mind, on the contrary. They grew bolder after a while, and Sherlock realized there was nothing to be ashamed of.

 

John's fingers gently run down Sherlock's shoulder, and he smiles as he thinks about Sherlock's little gasps and the way he shuddered when John kissed his way down his chest. He is ticklish just below his navel, John knows now, and he likes having John's hand on his belly.

Sherlock stirs as John continues to caress his shoulder, his neck and the soft skin behind his ear, pressing his face more firmly against the other's skin. "You smell good," he murmurs, eyes still closed.

John smiles again: "Of what?"

"Of you." Sherlock's voice is low as he answers.

"Care to elaborate? I don't know how I smell."

"I can't describe your own scent." It smells like home to Sherlock. He hesitates, taking stock before he continues: "Your own scent is the underlying base. On top of it is warm skin, and soap. Your aftershave. Sweat, too." He hesitates. "All of this, really." Of course, the different scents which come with being intimate are new to Sherlock as well.

John's hand slowly wanders to his love's face: "I'm smelling of you too, then." He can feel Sherlock's smile underneath his fingers.

The detective listens to John's heartbeat, which is slightly erratic at the moment, and buries his nose in his skin once more: his aftershave is something citrus-y. A subtle green scent he has always associated with John, not very unlike his own.

"Can we just stay in bed today?" he murmurs, making John shudder. The doctor shifts until they are face to face: "We don't have anything else on the agenda, do we?"

Sherlock shakes his head; he briefly thinks he should remember something, but that notion is drowned out by John's lips against his own.

* * *

Neither of them hears the door opening, but the gasp which follows is clearly audible, and then Mrs Hudson gives a small mewl and flatters her hand in front of her face, not knowing where to look and therefore looking anywhere but at John and Sherlock, who have frozen: "Oh... oh boys, I'm _so_ sorry, I haven't knocked loud enough, oh dear," and then the old lady all but flees the room.

John and Sherlock stare at each other speechlessly for a moment before simultaneously bursting into giggles.

"Poor Mrs H.," John gasps once the bout is over, and Sherlock actually manages to look contrite: "I completely forgot she was coming over," he says, astonished that that is possible at all, and a little indignant at that. " _Me_. How peculiar." Which immediately destroys the remains of John's composure.

It takes another five minutes until they are dressed and have sufficiently recovered. While John makes up the bed, Sherlock goes to look for Mrs Hudson. He finds her in front of the Kandinsky, looking flustered and intently studying the painting.

"I'm sorry, Mrs Hudson," Sherlock says, "we lost track of time." To his horror, he feels himself flush when she turns to look at him. She studies his face, his slightly rumpled exterior and the way he holds himself- he is obviously embarrassed, but his eyes are bright, and his posture has lost the air of defeat which has been there the last time.

"That's all right, my dear," she says, clearing her throat. "I hope you did talk to him first, though."

Sherlock's face is definitely crimson now. "None of your business," he says, a little too sharp and also not entirely justified, considering. So he quickly adds "But yes, I did." in a softer tone.

Mrs Hudson's expression is unreadable for a moment, then she punches him on the arm with a mischievous little smirk: "Oh, you," she scoffs, but he can tell that she's already forgiven him. If there ever was anything to forgive.

* * *

"She didn't seem surprised," John remarks that evening after Mrs Hudson has gone, and Sherlock does his best to look unconcerned: "Hm?"

"Mrs Hudson. She was a little embarrassed, but not surprised."

"Ever since we have known each other, everyone kept remarking about us acting like a couple," Sherlock replies, "Mrs Hudson hasn't been the exception."

"She never said we're a couple," John huffs.

Sherlock smirks: "But she's been thinking it right from the beginning."

The doctor runs his hand through his hair, shaking his head:"How come the rest of the world knew before we did?"

"They didn't know. They just assumed."

"Fine. How come the rest of the world _assumed_ before we did?"

"Because they saw us together. An advantage we didn't have. We didn't watch ourselves."

John looks incredulous: "But we were _there_ , both of us. Shouldn't we have realized- oh, never mind." He feels tired now, and he's too weary to think about it.

"Well," Sherlock murmurs slowly, "maybe one of us has realized something but didn't act on it."

John stares at him, wide awake again.

Sherlock fidgets a little.

John keeps staring.

"Stop looking at me like that."

"Sherlock Holmes. When we first met you practically lost no time to tell me that you were married to your work. And now you're telling me- what? That you've had a _crush_ on me?"

"Please."

"There's no need to go all posh on me now."

"I'm not."

"Okay, so- tell me. Why didn't you let me know that you changed your mind? It might have made things easier, could have gotten me thinking."

"It might have made everything much more complicated."

"We can't know that."

"But I tried... _flirting_ with you," Sherlock defends himself. "You didn´t bite."

"Excuse me? When did you _ever_ flirt with me?"

"After we met Moriarty for the first time. You said I was being unkind to Molly when I tried to talk her out of dating 'Jim from IT'. Consequently, I was extra nice to you."

John scrunches up his face, trying to recall the day in the lab. "You invited me to examine the shoes. Carl Powers´ shoes."

"Exactly."

"That- _that_ was flirting?"

"Of course. But you didn't notice. So I tried once more- when we were looking at the stars. The location was perfect, but again, to no avail."

John shakes his head: "You´re incredible!"

"I know."

"That wasn't meant as a compliment."

Sherlock looks displeased at that, and John has a hard time not to laugh.

"Seriously, Sherlock, I didn't realize that _that_ was meant to be flirting."

The dismay on Sherlock's face turns into a more thoughtful expression: "Love is blind," he murmurs, eliciting a smile from John,"isn't that a saying?"

"Yes," John nods.

Sherlock gets to his feet, obviously having had enough of this particular conversation: "I need a shower."

They didn't have the chance to wash when Mrs Hudson arrived, and he feels uncomfortably sticky in certain places.

John purses his lips, torn between amusement and incredulity at this latest piece of information, when Sherlock pops his head through the bathroom door: "Aren't you coming?"

"Why is it that you can't be alone in the bathroom these days?" John teases him, fondly.

Sherlock grimaces impatiently: "No, I meant... to shower with me?"

Immediately, John's heart-rate picks up again. "Y-yes," he says, he doesn't have to think about it. "I'd love to."

* * *

Undressing in front of each other still feels strange, but Sherlock suspects that it might never stop doing so. He reaches into the cubicle to turn on the spray, and when he turns back towards John, he finds the doctor standing right next to him, so nearby in fact that he can feel the body-heat radiating off him, and the gaze with which he regards Sherlock is one of pure affection. It's not a conscious decision to close the remaining distance between them, they both move at the same time.

Winding their arms around each other and pressing their bodies together feels marvellous; warm, soft skin and heartbeats. They kiss, gently and tenderly, and Sherlock thinks that everything they had to endure was worth it if only he can keep this, if he can be with John until the end of his days.

Eventually, they step into the cubicle and let the warm water run over them; it's a whole new sensation and feels brilliant.

Understandably, they stay in the shower for a quite a long time.

* * *

On the following morning, Sherlock types up some of his notes in order to hand the file to Mycroft, who is going to have the information cross-checked. After reading through them again, he felt better; there is no way that he has overlooked something. He had prepared well for his task and has been very thorough all the time. There is a list of people who have been operating for Moriarty, and he has seen to it that they are neutralized, to say the least.

He only killed two of them, and it's been self-defense in both cases. Which doesn't make it easier to live with, but he tells himself that it'd either have been him or them. Certainly, neither of them would have had similar qualms.

He can see the faces of all of these people as he alphabetically types their respective names and how they were connected with Moriarty. Some of them were mere dogsbodies, blunt tools. Others were higher up in the hierarchy, designated to make their own choices if need be. Dangerous, all of them.

Sherlock has come so far as 'M' when John leans over his shoulder, looking at the screen: "Moran," he reads, "do I know that name?"

Sherlock is certain that he has never talked about him to John. He pulls up a picture of him on his phone and shows it to John:"One of Moriarty's finest. He did serve in Afghanistan as well."

"Hm. Maybe I've heard of him there." John frowns, not sure whether the man looks familiar or not.

Sherlock's voice is toneless: "He's dead."

He can feel John tense next to him: "How?" he asks.

Sherlock avoids to look at him: "He was shot."

John doesn't reply at first, and he is hesitant to ask: "By you?"

"No. By one of Mycroft's men." _Just_ a _s he was about to kill me_ , he silently adds. Moran had nearly outwitted Sherlock, and it still rankled.

For a moment, John puts his hand on Sherlock's shoulder, applying gentle pressure. He knows better than to say anything, and he doesn't have to. For a moment, Sherlock leans an infinitesimal bit closer to him, inhaling that scent again. It's good that he's there.

* * *

John sits down on the sofa with the papers, not wanting to keep Sherlock from his task. He glances at him in regular intervals; the detective is frowning as he concentrates, chewing on his lips.

That evening finds them on the sofa again, Sherlock's head on John's thigh as usual. He is tense and still frowning from time to time, and John, who has switched on the TV, gently massages Sherlock's temple to put him at ease. John has been reading to Sherlock at first, but the detective was too agitated, the book only made it worse. The TV however provides a sufficiently random background noise; ads about cars and dog food aren't something one has to pay any particular attention to.

Eventually, Sherlock relaxes and tries to concentrate on the film which is about to start.

"Boring," he declares after five minutes, closing his eyes. At least he's less inclined to shoot holes in the wall these days.

"It's not boring, it's history," John protests good-naturedly. _Hornblower_ is on, and he quite likes it. He hasn't really been following the story though, since he was distracted by the thought of how Sherlock would look like in one of those 19th-century navy uniforms... _get a grip, Watson_ , he tells himself, but the idea has quite some appeal. Especially if a tricorn's included.

"You're grinning," Sherlock remarks, "but you don't want me to see it."

"I'm not."

"Yes, you are."

"No, I'm not. My expression is completely serious. Sombre even, for reasons you might deduce."

"And inwardly, you are grinning."

"Sherlock-"

"It's hardly my fault that you're so obvious."

"Your eyes aren't even open."

"Is that a confession?"

"Am I in court?"

"Stop answering my questions with questions."

"Stop talking while I'm watching TV."

"Dull."

"I still want to watch it. _And_ hear what's being said."

"I can hear perfectly well what's being said. And it's boring."

"One of these days."

"What?"

"Hm?"

"One of these days what?"

"Never mind. It works better if you don't expect it."

"As in 'We tigers like our food surprised and running'?"

"Don't tell me _you_ have read _Calvin and Hobbes_."

"Yes, I have."

"You. Mr I-don't-care-how-our-solar-system-works. You have actually read a _cartoon_."

"It was in the papers. I was bored. And that kid's funny."

John wisely swallows his reply.

Sherlock's hand creeps up to the doctor's thigh and briefly caresses it before coming to rest next to his head, adding to the warm, comfortable weight, and John's own hand leaves Sherlock's temple and finds it, weaving his fingers through Sherlock's.

" _You_ 're funny," he says, fondly, and Sherlock, even with his eyes closed, looks rather smug at that.

John thinks Sherlock has dozed off when he stirs once more, opening one eye and peering up at the sitting man:"I'd look rather dashing in one of those uniforms, wouldn't you say?"

* * *

A few hours later, John is startled out of sleep by frantic hands which are scrabbling over his torso, his face. Still drowsy, he reaches up to catch them, gently but firmly holding on to those slender fingers, at the same time saying Sherlock's name. The detective has sat up in his sleep, shaking and disoriented. It takes a while until he stops struggling and John can pull him back down and into his arms. He can feel Sherlock's heartbeat, which slowly decreases from racing to normal, and wonders which kind of demons have chased him out of sleep; very likely the same ones he has been thinking about all day.

When the tremors eventually abate, John is relieved. They will all be glad once everything lies behind them, he thinks, when names like Moriarty and Moran are nothing more than history, the echoes of a fairy tale.

**To Be Continued  
**

  
Thank you for reading.

Please leave some feedback.

**Further author's notes:**

 

* * *

You can read about _Hornblower_ as well as _Calvin and Hobbes_ on Wikipedia. Furthermore, neither of those belong to me.

 


	14. What Goes Up Must Come Down

 

**Hazard Control  
**

 

Part 14: What Goes Up Must Come Down

 

 

Sherlock sleeps fitfully for the rest of the night and the ones that follow; several times, he jerks upright with a start, groping around blindly in the dark until John is alert enough to calm him down. Sherlock's heart beats wildly every time, and he struggles against John's hold, unaware that he's doing so. The last time it happens, it's still dark outside.

"Sherlock," John says quietly, gently but determinedly holding on to him. Sherlock's trembling and quivers in his arms when he hears the other's voice.

"John," he grinds out, choked, "John."

"I'm here," John reassures him, murmuring into his ear. "I've got you. We're all right."

He continues to do so until Sherlock lies still again, clinging to John as if he'd drown otherwise. The doctor gives up on sleep for the time being; instead, he holds on to Sherlock, gently caressing him, hoping he can keep the nightmares at bay like this.

At one point, the first light is just creeping through the curtains, John notices that Sherlock's no longer sleeping. He is blinking slowly and possibly wondering why his _boyfriend_ is holding him in a kind of gentle death-grip. But he remains silent, and John waits for him to talk first. Sherlock however only closes his eyes again and presses his face against John's skin with a small sigh. Maybe he does remember. John's hand wanders to Sherlock's neck, his fingers playing with the curls at the nape. If anything, he can offer Sherlock his patience.

"Moran," Sherlock says without preamble, "he is still there. In my head. I can't delete him. And he's broken into my Mind Palace."

Anyone unfamiliar with Sherlock would have laughed about that last piece of information, but John knows better. Knows that it is to be taken serious.

"How did he do that?" he asks, calmly.

Sherlock exhales somewhat shakily: "I had locked him away. I couldn't delete him, so I put him somewhere in the back of my mind. But now, all of a sudden, he's interfering with things which are securely stowed away in my Mind Palace. He's like a ghost that can walk through walls. Even when I'm thinking about completely different matters, he's suddenly there. As if my subconscious wanted to mock me."

"And it makes you feel vulnerable."

"Yes."

"But he's dead."

"Yes."

"Sometimes that's even worse."

Sherlock closes his eyes once more, grateful for John and the way he understands. In his good dreams, he walks up to Moran and punches him until he's bleeding, then tells him that he'll never ever hurt anyone Sherlock loves, or anyone at all for that matter. It's immensely satisfying and usually ends up with Moran being irrevocably defeated. In the dream it always makes sense.

In his nightmares, Moran retains the upper hand, and it's Sherlock who's being defeated, who's lost among those which his enemy killed. And who can't die himself, for Moran wants him to suffer. He's had these dreams before, but not so frequently. Writing about Moran and talking about him has increased them.

"I didn't even know about Moran when I left London," he says when he's got his voice under control again. "He's a wild-card, unpredictable, and he was invisible for a long time. I didn't learn about him until months later." He remembers it all too well: Mycroft had called him to inform him about Moran. The older Holmes made it very clear that Moran was a game-changer, for one thing was certain: Sherlock no longer had been the hunter, he was being hunted himself all of a sudden. It had meant double the amount of security for John, Lestrade and Mrs Hudson, but it had also meant that Sherlock had to alter his modus operandi; it would have been too risky to proceed as planned.

It had thrown him back a few weeks, but that hadn't been what had been worst about the whole situation: he had been unable to put London out of his thoughts. John. The others too, but most of all, John. Sherlock had not forgotten Moriarty's threat: "I'll burn the heart out of you." He couldn't be sure that Moran wouldn't carry it out instead; he probably had gotten detailed instructions. The thought alone had made Sherlock feel sick.

Concern belonged into the same category as sentiment, and it made him less effective and annoyingly vulnerable. And yet he wasn't able to stop it, or push it back into the corner of his mind he has reserved for especially difficult cases which needed to be postponed but weren't designated for the Mind Palace.

He feels John's hand in his hair and once more realizes what he'd have lost if Moran had indeed targeted the doctor. Though 'lost' is the wrong term in this regard- he'd never even have had this, John's hand in his hair, John's closeness which he has come to cherish. John's love. He'd have lost his best friend, and that'd have been that. Their relationship would never have gotten a chance to develop further. Involuntarily, he shivers. At which the hand pauses for a moment, then John hums: "He does sound creepy," he says. "So how do we get rid of him?" The affection in his tone wraps Sherlock in a cocoon of safety and love.

"Just give it time," Sherlock murmurs, grateful for the 'we'. He's tired of doing things single-handedly. S _tay with me, John. Just stay with me._

John presses a kiss on Sherlock's temple: "I'll read a bit, okay?" Without waiting for Sherlock's answer or moving too much, he reaches out and fishes the book from the nightstand: "Whoever falls into the water in Greenland does not come up again. The sea is less than 4°C, and at that temperature all processes of decomposition have ceased." John hesitates; he wouldn't recommend reading this to anyone else with a distressed mind, but for Sherlock, it's probably exactly the right thing, keeping his interest and therefore, his mind off other things. Subdueing a sigh, the doctor reads on: "That's why the fermentation of the stomach contents does not occur here; in Denmark it gives suicides renewed buoyancy and brings them to the surface, to be washed ashore."

* * *

As the weather eventually improves from constant rain to dry and sometimes even sunny days, Sherlock and John take to walking around the grounds, which are of the size of a small park. They have discussed returning to Baker Street, and while Sherlock is eager, John still hesitates. For one, Sherlock's not even remotely fit enough yet in his opinion, and the doctor is worried that he'll overstrain himself. What if Lestrade lets him in on his cases and Sherlock -against his better judgement- chases off after a suspect? His body wouldn't thank him, apart from the fact that he'd stand no chance in a fight.

The risk seems too high. John will of course have a word with Lestrade, and he's certain that the Detective Inspector won't go against his wishes (if he can let Sherlock in at all), but who knows- maybe Sherlock will find another chance to worm his way in.

The other reason is more complicated and hard to explain. He can't really put a finger on what exactly it is that is bothering him; maybe it's the prospect of returning to the daily grind. Maybe it's because here at the manor he can keep a much better eye on Sherlock than in Baker Street. Maybe it's because he's afraid that things will change once they have gone back to everyday life, that normalcy (as far as the term is applicable to life in 221B) is going to affect Sherlock's and his relationship in the negative. And of course, it undeniably won't be as comfortable as it is here. John has gotten used to not having to do the dishes or cleaning, and he doesn't look forward to it.

Sherlock didn't take John's reluctance well, even though John has only named the first of his reasons.

"I won't do anything I'm not up to," he insisted, at which the doctor couldn't but stare at him incredulously: "Yes, you will."

"I won't."

"Fine. Let's say your intentions are good. What if something unforeseen happens? What if you're going out for some air and someone gets mugged right in front of you? Don't tell me you won't chase after the thug."

"Why would I do that?"

"Because you love the thrill."

"True. I might forget myself. But the chances for someone being mugged right in front of me are rather slim, don't you think? This entire conversation is pointless."

"It's not." John firmly stood his ground. "My point is: what if something pops up, something which might tempt you to do something stu- something you'd possibly regret later, and I'm not there to stop you?"

"But you _will_ be there."

"I might be out to get the groceries. Hell, I might even get a new job."

"Not until you declare me sufficiently recovered to be left on my own." Sherlock looked smug. "We could order our groceries on the internet until then. Or anyway, come to think of that."

"Talking of pointless conversations." John folded his arms: "Just a few more weeks, Sherlock. You should use the time to walk outside, work on your stamina. You're doing fine, and it's much easier to do it all here than back home." Admittedly, the word does induce a pleasant shiver to run down his spine. "I'll need some time to organize my stuff anyway, give note to my landlord and such."

Sherlock had huffed, but didn't protest any further: "Two weeks."

"Three."

"Two."

"Fine. Two, and we'll see how it goes then. Provided that you'll eat and sleep and continue to do so once we're back in 221B."

Sherlock looked rather disgruntled at that for a moment, but then his expression had softened a little: "Two bedrooms," he had said. "We won't be needing two bedrooms any longer."

"No," John had agreed while his stomach was doing somersaults at the pleasant realization. He hadn't even thought about that yet. "We won't."

* * *

Even though the nightmares begin to recede, Sherlock is getting increasingly irritable in between walking and exercising and waiting, and the fact that John goes to run his errands a few times doesn't help with that. Of course, Sherlock is aware that these errands are necessary and in favour of their moving back in together, but he is crabby nevertheless; John's hesitation has had him thinking second thoughts as well.

"Why do you call it 'moving back in together' at all?" he asks one morning as John is getting ready to leave, with a definite edge in his tone. "Technically, I've never moved out. And you haven't moved away from me, you've moved out of an empty flat. You should call it 'moving back in with you'."

John, for all his usual patience, has a difficult time not to raise his voice:"For God's sake, why don't you sit down and read something if you are so bored that you feel compelled to pick at my choice of words?"

"Reading is boring."

" _Not_ true. I've seen you sitting and reading quietly for hours. And I vaguely recall that you like being read to by me."

"That's different."

"Fine. Deal with it."

"I don't know what to read anyway."

"There's an _abundance_ of books in this house, Sherlock." John's voice is getting dangerously quiet.

"Not interested."

"Liar." The doctor's gaze strays over to the cupboard full of Sherlock's grandma's books.

Sherlock sets his lips in a thin line and doesn't reply, but his eyes are blazing as he glares at John.

Who refuses to be sympathetic this time, because really, Sherlock and his pigheadedness are driving him up the wall. "Fine. Sit here and sulk, I have to go."

He can feel Sherlock's stare all the way to the door, but he wills himself not to stop and turn around. He does feel sorry for his partner, because being holed up like this is completely going against his nature. Of course, _holed up_ doesn't really apply to the comfort of Holmes Manor, but John is aware how much of Sherlock's patience (of which there's few and far in between anyway) it is taking, and the softer part of him is already relenting: it'd be easy to just go back, pull the idiot into his arms and try to make it better.

But no, the soldier part of him says, he can't be allowed to get through with this.

The softer part reluctantly agrees. With a heavy heart, John therefore succeeds in leaving the room without giving in, only throwing a "Later" over his shoulder before closing the door behind him.

* * *

As soon as John is gone, Sherlock visibly deflates. He didn't mean to say those things. As usual, John didn't deserve to bear the brunt of his frustration, but Sherlock couldn't stop himself. Ever since he has compiled the file for Mycroft, he's been worrying on top of being bored, and now the whole 'moving back'-issue is putting even more emphasis onto it. He is afraid of losing John. It didn't make sense to him at first, seeing as Moriarty isn't a threat anymore.

Yet he can't shake off the notion that there are so many other things which might happen, considering his job and John's participation in it. It all comes down to those bloody feelings; now that he and John are romantically involved, the one thing he is afraid of is to lose his doctor. So far, they have been lucky. Which has him pondering how to proceed; he wants John by his side now more than ever, desperately wants him, wants to keep the 'we', but that is blatantly selfish. He can of course try to exclude John from his cases, but that doesn't necessarily mean that John can't be targeted.

However, Sherlock can't very well find another job, can he? There's nothing else he can or wants to do than solving crimes. It's one thing to risk his own life though, but an entirely different matter if there's another one at stake.

The price seems to high. Maybe it's been a mistake to give in to his feelings; maybe he shouldn't have become so involved with John, not like this. But whenever his thoughts have reached this point, his heart aches and he feels nauseous. He can't give up this love. But that is the point, isn't it? He can't selfishly take John's love and offer nothing but danger in return.

He shivers; if he can't be with John, he'll perish, that is how vulnerable all these feelings have made him.

Slowly, as though not entirely convinced that he is doing the right thing, Sherlock leaves his room and goes to find Mycroft.

* * *

John enters 221B and looks around. Mrs Hudson, who is downstairs making tea, has kept the flat clean; there's no dust, no furniture under covers. There are those boxes with the few of Sherlock's things they have packed up, but apart from that, it looks like it always did. Except that it's colder than usual, and the air is a little stale.

It makes John's heart soar to know that he'll be soon living here again, with Sherlock. A little pang of guilt makes itself known, immediately followed by anger about feeling guilty at all.

"Manipulative bastard," John murmurs, albeit a little half-heartedly. The skull is grinning at him, clearly taking Sherlock's side.

On a whim, John crosses through the kitchen and into Sherlock's bedroom. Which will possibly be his as well, since it's bigger and nicer than the one upstairs, not as susceptible to heat or coldness, and situated right next to the bathroom.

With a sneaky feeling, John opens the door to Sherlock's wardrobe. All his suits are there, neatly lined up on their hangers. For all the chaos Sherlock tends to spread around him, he is very tidy with his clothes, as proven by the sock index. John still hasn't got the knack of that. He smiles, fondly; probably no one else than Sherlock will ever do.

Tentatively, John bends forward, taking in his boyfriend's scent with a deep breath; this is the smell of home, and no matter how prickly Sherlock was when John left, it immediately stirs up a myriad of butterflies in John's belly.

The squeaking floorboard from just outside the door propels him backwards; it's Mrs Hudson, who is clearing her throat at the sight of a rather flustered John: "Sorry, love. Tea's ready." With that, she quickly turns and leaves; John can't help but think that he's seen a sad smile on her face.

For a moment, he stands very still; this is the second time that the old lady has witnessed what some people might call inappropriate behaviour, but if anything, she seems to approve of it. Which doesn't change the fact that he is positively flustered when he enters Mrs Hudson's kitchen two minutes later.

"It's all right, dear," she says after just one look, pushing a pale green tin over to him. It's old, possibly from the 1950s, and has roses on the lid. In it, he finds the photograph of a young man, someone who'd possibly be described as 'racy', wearing a quiff and a jaunty smile. Underneath the photo, there's only one more item: a handkerchief, made of plain white cotton; it's got fading blue embroidery along the hems and looks like it's been crumpled up and then smoothed out again.

"His name was Alistair," Mrs Hudson says when John looks up questioningly, "and I was completely smitten with him when I was sixteen. We went out on a few dates, then... he dumped me for the next one." Her expression is wistful: "I kept his hanky, and you have no idea how often I took it out, just to feel close to him."

John smiles: "Thank you for showing me this," he says. "And he probably didn't deserve you, anyway."

* * *

"I have already made sure that there'll be the topmost security on Baker Street," Mycroft says, calmly. Sherlock didn't really expect to find him at this time of day, but he seems to work from home a lot these days.

"That's not enough. Someone's got to monitor him around the clock, whatever he does, wherever he goes."

"Even if that means to monitor you as well?"

"I don't care. I want him to be safe."

"What if he finds out? I don't imagine that he'll be happy about it."

Sherlock remains silent, though his stony face is only a facade. He knows what he's putting at risk, and his heart is beating wildly.

Mycroft regards his younger brother with a carefully neutral expression before nodding:"Rest assured that I will initiate the necessary arrangements immediately."

"Good." Sherlock fiddles with the hem of his jumper: "Thank you."

"Not at all." A smile appears on the older Holmes' face as he studies his sibling, and it looks genuinely affectionate.

It makes Sherlock uncomfortable, but for once, he manages not to snap at Mycroft. With a nod, he leaves the room.

Mycroft ponders this latest development; for Sherlock to demand such a high-grade surveillance is the last thing he anticipated. His people have gone through the file his brother provided with a fine-tooth comb, but Sherlock seems to have done a good job (a notion which fills Mycroft with pride).

The reason must be a different one. Mycroft smirks to himself; it seems that Sherlock is deeply and truly in love, and that the emotions are indeed strong enough for him to put John Watson's welfare before his own. The smirk fades as Mycroft continues this train of thought; it shouldn't be so difficult, he thinks. Being in love should include carefreeness, not the feeling of having to protect the other from enemies yet unseen.

Sherlock's words from a long time ago come back to him, spoken on a snowy Christmas Eve in a morgue: " _They all care so much._ _Do you ever wonder if there's something wrong with us_?"

Yes, Mycroft concedes silently, sadly; there is. Even if we do care.

* * *

After tea, John returns to 221B; he has brought his clothes from his current flat and now wonders whether they'll fit into Sherlock's wardrobe together with the detective's things. Probably not. They'll have to shift the furniture around a bit to make way for his own stuff, from the look of things.

He carries his clothes upstairs for the time being, then chooses one of Sherlock's suits to take to the manor, the black one made of velvety corduroy. Sherlock's worn it when they met for the first time, and it's John's favourite. He finds a matching shirt and carefully packs it into a duffle bag; Sherlock will probably not want to return to Baker Street in his father's jumper.

After unpacking the boxes, which takes nearly two hours, and tidying up behind him, John is finally done for this day. He'll come back once more with groceries and such, because he doesn't want Mrs Hudson to do it all. Not that it'd bother her, but John is mindful of her age and the fact that they sometimes do take her for granted.

* * *

Back at the manor, John finds Sherlock staring at _The Field of the Cloth of Gold_ with folded arms and a ruminative expression.

"Maybe we shouldn't nick it," he says without preamble, his gaze never leaving the painting. "I'm not sure I want a picture of Henry VIII in my flat."

"He was a right bastard," John agrees, though that's obviously not the actual reason. This particular king hasn't bothered Sherlock before, after all.

"My focus was on the dragon," Sherlock says coldly, as though he's read John's mind. "Which should be odd, considering that it's not even in the golden ratio. It doesn't make sense."

"Your focus was on it because it reminded you of your grandma," John says, softly, wondering in earnest now what is bothering his partner. It is a little alarming to hear Sherlock speak like that; he's not used to it anymore. Maybe Sherlock is still mad at him for leaving like he did earlier.

"What's wrong?" he inquires in the same soft voice. He has nearly forgotten about their silly little argument while he was at 221B, engulfed by fond memories, and isn't really prepared for this.

"Nothing's wrong," Sherlock spits, "I just changed my mind."

"And you seem to be under the impression that I criticised you."

"You did."

"Excuse me? When?"

"Just now. You were thinking that I should have noticed the fat idiot much earlier."

John can't help it, but his own temper flares up as well at this unjustified accusation. "No, I didn't!" This time, he does raise his voice. "Stop being like this, Sherlock, you're insufferable."

"As is customary for me, wouldn't you say?" Sherlock replies bitterly.

John opens and closes his mouth a few times before he finds the right words: "Stop telling me what I'm thinking!"

Sherlock scoffs: "It's what I do."

"No, Sherlock. Not with me." John feels strangely helpless, but he still can't let the other one get away with this. "Talk to me, please. I thought we were honest with each other."

"We are. I'm the show-off, you're the heart. There's a difference."

John has half a mind to walk out on Sherlock, but he knows that it wouldn't solve anything.

"What's wrong, Sherlock?" he asks again, his voice a little calmer. "Tell me."

Sherlock however only shoots him one look, then, with a few long strides, leaves the room. A rush of fear-driven adrenaline runs through John's body, leaving him shocked and rooted to the spot for a moment, unable to figure out what has just happened there.

* * *

Sherlock doesn't exactly run, but he walks fast. As fast as he can, that is, and once more he has to acknowledge that the exercises have been good for him.

His old hiding tree isn't far from the house, yet it can't be seen from any of the windows. Sherlock finds that his hands and feet remember astonishingly well which branches, knobs and indentations to use for climbing, and it doesn't take long for him to reach the crutch in which he used to sit. The foliage is quite dense already, hiding here will give him time to think.

He looks around; it seems that he's been here only yesterday when in fact it's more than fifteen years ago. Running his fingers over the bark, he experiences a sense of peace washing over him. As long as he doesn't think of John, that is, because thinking of John immediately triggers the guilt he fully well knows he ought to feel. The predominant thing he feels however is pain, raw and terrible, eating at his heart.

* * *

John has been looking for Sherlock all over. He isn't anywhere in the house, at least not those parts John has access to, and the butler hasn't seen him either.

When it is getting dark outside and Sherlock still hasn't come back, John decides to employ Mycroft.

"Sherlock's run off in a strop and I can't find him anywhere," he says, aware of how that sounds. He is not aware of how devastated he looks, how his fists clench and unclench at his sides.

"He's worried about you," the older Holmes says while he's getting to his feet.

"He's got a funny way to show it," John huffs.

"We are not very gifted when it comes to dealing with emotions," Mycroft admits, "as you should know by now."

"Yes, thanks, I do," John all but snaps, "though it's a little annoying that you're not making a bit more of an effort to change that! Neither of you!" Boy, it feels good to vent.

"Clearly it's not fair to expect your patience to be endless," Mycroft says after a moment of comprehension.

"Why is he worried about _me_ at all?" John fumes.

Mycroft raises one eyebrow: "Isn't it obvious?"

John looks as though he is ready to pounce.

Hurriedly, Mycroft continues: "Now that your relationship has developed further and after all that happened, he is afraid that something might happen to you," he explains. "He doesn't know how to deal with it."

The doctor snorts:"He's certainly not making things easier by pushing me away all of a sudden."

"No." For a moment, Mycroft's expression is pained, because it is exactly what Sherlock has done with him, years ago. He looks at John for a moment, pondering: "You better stay here. I'll go and find him."

It seems that he's got a rather precise idea where to look.

"Fine!" Still looking thunderous, John folds his arms, his whole body tense. Without any further comment, Mycroft leaves the room.

* * *

Sherlock is being pulled out of his unhappy musings when he catches a movement in the corner of his eye. To his surprise, it's Mycroft who's crossing the lawn, and he is walking purposefully towards the very tree Sherlock is sitting in.

It doesn't take long for him to spy his brother; in the twilight of dusk, he can mainly see Sherlock's eyes, large and prominent in his pale face.

"Sherlock, come down," Mycroft says, albeit in a much more lenient tone than back at Buckingham Palace, which was the last time he ordered for Sherlock to do something.

"No."

"You're not six years old anymore."

"How did you know I was here?"

"Once you were tall enough to reach the lowest branches, you've always been hiding in this tree when you needed to be alone. The first time you came here was after Father threatened to sell Jupiter if you didn't learn the times table."

Sherlock stares at Mycroft, taking a moment to digest this unexpected information and what it means.

"I'm not coming down yet," he eventually says nevertheless, hoping that Mycroft can't see that he's shivering. It's getting cold, and he isn't wearing his coat. Once again.

"Then you're leaving me absolutely no alternative," Mycroft replies, and to Sherlock's horror, he reaches up and begins to climb the tree.

**To Be Continued  
**

**Thank you for reading!**

Please leave some feedback.

The line _"They all care so much._ _Do you ever wonder if there's something wrong with us_?" is quoted from "A Scandal in Belgravia".


	15. Closer

 

 

**Hazard Control  
**

 

Part 15: Closer

 

 

 

 

"Stop that," Sherlock hisses, "Mycroft!"

But his brother ignores him.

"I'll jump!"

"No," Mycroft puffs, panting, "you won't. If you do, you might injure yourself, which will lead to further delaying your return to Baker Street."

Sherlock doesn't answer to that; fuming, he watches as his brother struggles to join him.

When Mycroft has finally reached the crutch and found his seating, he's red-faced and more than a little out of breath. He takes his time to recover, looking around before his gaze comes to rest on his brother: "You're cold," he states, shrugging out of his jacket and handing it over to Sherlock, who -predictably so- crosses his arms in front of his chest and refuses to take it. With a sigh, Mycroft leans over and drapes the jacket over Sherlock's shoulders.

"I'm fine," Sherlock protests, scowling, but he keeps the jacket and Mycroft's warmth nevertheless.

"Always so dramatic," Mycroft says, shaking his head. "You should come down and talk to John, Sherlock."

"I can't."

"Why not, if I may ask?"

"You may not. It's none of your business."

"Considering that both of you came to me for help, I daresay it is." He has long ago decided that bending the truth a tiny bit is allowed in extraordinary circumstances.

Sherlock makes a face as though he's bitten into a lemon, avoiding his brother's gaze. It'd be rather amusing if Mycroft didn't know better.

"If you are afraid of losing him," he says bluntly, "you should by all means reconsider your current behaviour."

At this, Sherlock's head snaps up: "Why, what did he say?"

"It's not so much what he said," Mycroft replies, wondering if he is about to become Agony Aunt and whether Sherlock's really so dense at times, "but I do believe even Dr Watson's patience has its limits, and if you keep pushing him away, especially after this prolonged period of mutual affection, he will sooner or later act accordingly, I am convinced of it." He swallows the rest of the words which are waiting to be said: _which is what happened to us_.

It's disconcerting to see the look of devastation on Sherlock's face; it mirrors the one on John Watson's earlier, and Mycroft is once more struck by how deep their bond goes. He's a tiny bit jealous, too, but clearly, this isn't about him. What's more, he is a little dismayed by the fact that Sherlock doesn't even try to hide his emotions, for the first time in years allowing Mycroft to read him. He just sits there, still shivering, and looks as though his whole world has been upturned once more.

Okay, not dense then. Just pathetically bad at interpersonal skills when it comes to certain feelings.

"Come on," Mycroft beckons towards the house with his head, and after another moment, Sherlock moves.

* * *

Getting down from the tree proves a little more challenging than getting up, especially since it's now considerably darker. Mycroft is relieved when he's back on solid ground.

Silently, he walks Sherlock towards the house. He has gotten his jacket back; Sherlock has wrapped his arms around his torso in order to keep warm, but he's still trembling from the cold when they enter the hall. Mycroft leads the way up to Sherlock's room, and his brother meekly follows him. Mycroft himself lights the fire in the fireplace, then calls the butler and asks him to bring some tea and Dr Watson while Sherlock huddles close to the blessed warmth radiating from the fire, avoiding Mycroft's gaze once more.

"Talk to him, Sherlock," Mycroft says gently, "you're both worrying about each other. It'd be the most cruel irony to let this destroy what you two have." With that, he leaves the room.

John and the butler arrive soon afterwards, bringing with them tea and an awkward silence. John stands with folded arms and looks Sherlock over with pursed lips while tea is being served, taking in the green stains on his trousers and a small leaf in his tousled hair.

"Have you been climbing trees?" he asks, as soon as they are alone.

"Only one tree." Sherlock's voice is low, quiet and only a tiny bit petulant.

"Hm."

"Hm what?"

"I didn't think you'd do that. I mean, I've seen you climbing our coffee table, but I didn't expect you'd raise your goals to such an extent."

"Don't you want to sit down?" Sherlock ignores him rather than picking him up on that, an indicator that he is truly upset.

"No, thank you. I'm fine."

Sherlock can see that John is not going to make it too easy for him. He clearly is expecting something like an apology. If Sherlock only knew what to say now; everything which comes to his mind sounds hollow and meaningless.

After a few more minutes of silence, John shifts his weight from one foot to the other, looking as though he is either about to say something or simply walk away.

"I didn't mean to hurt you," Sherlock blurts out, in a rush, because he can't simply let John go. He hasn't realized he was holding his breath, and is voice comes out strangled. "I'm sorry. Forgive me."

John intended to coolly accept whichever peace-offering his boyfriend had in store, and then let him stew for a bit longer.

Yet now, in a way only Sherlock Holmes manages to attain, all of his resistance melts away in a heartbeat, and he feels reminded of the afternoon he went to the Natural History Museum and came back to find him in a similar state.

Only moments later, he is on his haunches in front of Sherlock, taking his cold hands into his own: "Idiot," he says firmly, though he feels shaken. "Whatever is going on in your mind, share it with me the next time, okay? This whole stupid quarrel was completely unnecessary."

Sherlock nods, sheepishly, and only now meets John's eyes. They are warm and full of affection as they behold his trembling and slightly rumpled form.

"This is what I meant," the trembling and rumpled figure says, unusually subdued. "I didn't treat you well lately, did I." It's not a question.

John wants to answer, but Sherlock doesn't let him: "This is why I was sceptic it'd work." His voice nearly gives out at the last word.

John is aware that he can't lie to Sherlock, who'd immediately see through it. "It was a bit not good, yeah," he replies after some deliberation. "But of course, you're a beginner."

Sherlock stares at him as though John had grown a third eye or a pair of wings. The latter, probably.

"Come on," John says, realizing just how inexperienced and unadept Sherlock really is when it comes to private matters, "let's not blow this out of proportion. You already said you were sorry."

Sherlock just looks at him, staring, trembling.

"You are cold," John states, cupping Sherlock's cheek with his hand.

The detective leans into the touch: "I'm stupid," he whispers, closing his eyes.

John caresses his cheek with his thumb: "You're not stupid, Sherlock," he says fondly. "A little childish at times, maybe, but not stupid."

Sherlock blinks, pressing against John's palm more firmly: "I don't want to lose you," he says, and his voice is rough all of a sudden.

"You won't lose me."

"You can't work with me anymore."

"Says who."

"I'm serious, John." Sherlock's eyes are dark and red-rimmed, giving him an unearthly look: "It's too dangerous."

"So you expect me to sit at home while you are risking your life on your own?"

Put that way, it does sound like a tad ridiculous.

"I've been doing it for years before you came along," Sherlock points out, evasively.

"And you'd probably be dead by now, if I _hadn't_ come along." John's hand wanders from Sherlock's face down to his neck, gently pulling him closer until their faces are in front of each other: "We've been working together very well, Sherlock," he says quietly. "I don't shy away from danger. I like the excitement and the thrill just as you do. We're a good team, and a team looks after each other. Don't shut me out now."

Sherlock releases a shuddering breath: "Promise me you'll be careful."

"I'm always careful," John smiles, gently kissing the other. "And I've already told you that nothing's going to happen to me. Promise _me_ you won't run off like that again."

Sherlock is still trembling, a combination of coldness and trepidation, now mingled with relief as he nods once again.

John assesses him calmly: "How about some tea and then the tub to warm up?"

But tea and tub will have to wait a bit longer, because Sherlock can't let go of John yet. He scoots closer and they wind their arms around each other, holding on tightly.

"I'm sorry," Sherlock mutters once more, his breath ghosting over John's neck.

"It's all right," John presses his nose into Sherlock's skin, inhaling his scent. "Just a matter of communication, really. You'll learn." His next words are slightly muffled: "I don't want to lose you either."

* * *

Half an hour later, they are lying in the tub together. Sherlock figured that, after having showered together, it'd be okay to ask John to join him, who rather happily obliged.

John leans back against Sherlock's chest and closes his eyes. It is marvellous to snuggle up in the warm water together, cosy and intimate. It feels like they've weathered a storm.

"Mycroft climbed onto the tree to get me down," Sherlock murmurs, the rumble of his voice reverberating through John's chest.

"He did what?"

"You heard me. And he was wearing his favourite suit."

John ponders this, the corners of his mouth pulling up into a smile. "He's as unpredictable as you."

Sherlock huffs, but doesn't reply.

"So... Henry and the dragon are staying here?"

"Yes."

"And you'll be okay with it?"

"Yes!" A hint of impatience steals into Sherlock's voice.

John pinches him in the thigh: "Just asking."

* * *

Mycroft relaxes back into his favourite armchair, brandy in hand. They'll be all right, he tells himself. Sherlock will be all right. There's been too much unhappiness in Sherlock's life already; Mycroft is glad that at least tonight (and hopefully for a long time to come), his brother's heart is in capable hands. The first time he had climbed into that tree, he had barely slept in the night. Mycroft had caught him sitting up and memorizing the times table at two in the morning, fearing that his father would actually carry out his threat and sell Jupiter. Mycroft had carried Sherlock to bed and attempted to put his mind at ease, but the boy was inconsolable.

"I will talk to Father," Mycroft had promised, after Sherlock had sat up again repeatedly, fretful and wide-eyed,"I'll tell him that I'll help you with the times table." Only after swearing a solemn oath on Captain Flint, he had finally convinced Sherlock to try and sleep, sitting with him until he was sure his little brother wouldn't get up once more.

Less than three years later, Mycroft hadn't been present when Jupiter had indeed been sold. He still can only imagine what Sherlock must have gone through that day and night and many days and nights afterwards.

He wishes he had been there. At least today he has, he muses, swirling the brandy around in its tumbler and watching how it catches the reflections from the fire. Maybe it's not too late to make up for a few things. And if it takes climbing trees and ruining his best suit in the process, so be it. Though, if he is completely honest, he'd rather not repeat the experience.

He pinches the bridge of his nose, closing his eyes in the process, and sighs. He usually has been able to distance himself from his feelings for Sherlock, especially after another one of their tete-a-tetes. He couldn't turn off the worrying, but he had developed a rather well-working defense mechanism for everything one might call sentiment, because otherwise, he would not have been able to cope with Sherlock's hostility at times. And now his little brother has once more managed to break through each and every wall Mycroft has built to protect himself.

* * *

That night, John is lying awake and wondering whether he's forgiven Sherlock too quickly.

During the early days of their companionship, he has watched Sherlock carefully, and what he remembers most about that is how lonely the man seemed. John is convinced that his sarcasm and rudeness were merely the results of something; after all, Sherlock, just like everybody else, has been shaped by his experiences. Staying in this house has shed some light on how those may have looked like, making it easier for John to relate to Sherlock's sometimes downright peculiar demeanour.

He subdues a sigh; yeah. He probably has been too lenient. On the other hand: at least this time, Sherlock has apologized out of his own account, and he seemed genuinely contrite about the whole affair, worried even.

John turns towards the sleeping man next to him, trying to make out his shape in the darkness; he listens to his quiet breathing and feels a surge of affection. He shifts a little until he is so close that their bodies are pressed together, and with a sigh of contentment, closes his eyes.

* * *

On the following morning, Mrs Hudson tears the page off her daily calendar and stares. Sucking in her breath, she takes a step back, hand over her mouth, before she gets a grip and calls herself a silly old bat, throwing the crumpled up paper into the bin in the process.

With a suddenly rather light heart, she turns on the kettle and prepares her breakfast, though she can't keep herself from glancing over to the date a few times: it's the fourth of May, exactly one year after Sherlock's fake suicide. For a moment, it had caught her unawares, but now she can't but be relieved that she doesn't need to travel to the cemetery today, as the person she'd otherwise have brought flowers is very much alive, bless him.

John notices it too, when he opens the newspapers that morning. He pauses, clearing his throat: "Sherlock- do you know which day it is today?"

"It's the fourth of May," Sherlock replies in an indifferent tone, not looking up from his section of the papers. "I know."

"It's the anniversary of... your fake death."

"I'm aware." He puts his paper down when silence ensues, and finds that John is rather pale and wide-eyed, and staring at him.

"It wasn't a good day," Sherlock says to appease him, "I don't want to fuss about it."

"I'm not... fussing," John replies, quietly. "But I'd like a kind of closure."

"Closure," Sherlock repeats, "why? I'm here, I'm alive, end of story."

"It's not that simple," John objects. How can he explain to Sherlock the horror of that day? That the dread is still palpable even now? That it's nothing so mundane as _sentiment_ which he is feeling?

"It's just...," he searches for words. "It's exactly a year ago now. It was easily one of the most horrible days in my life. If I don't think about it today, on its anniversary, I'll never be able to stop thinking of it."

"Fine," Sherlock appears unmoved. "You do that. I'll go for a walk. See you later." He puts on his coat and leaves the room. John stares after him, wondering if he really is as unfazed as he pretends, or whether once again, he has difficulties dealing with his own emotions. For the sake of both of them, he hopes it's the latter.

He looks around the room and realizes that he also needs to get some air. Just as he shrugs into his jacket, his phone buzzes. It's a text message from Mrs Hudson, who has obviously had the same thoughts as he: _How are you today, my dear?_

John quickly answers, telling her he'll be around later. Right now, he needs to be alone.

* * *

Sherlock strolls through the park in what he'd call a leisurely pace, others a slow run, and is also immersed in thoughts, hands clasped behind his back. He didn't tell John that he has relived the fourth of May too many times already, that thinking of it today won't make any difference to him. He only needs to close his eyes and is standing on that ledge again.

It was worse right after the fall, however. Everything had gone according to plan, but the one thing he couldn't plan was John's reaction. The devastation in his voice, the hurt in his expression, the grief. The incomprehension. Despite his injury from the collision with the bike, he had come down to the morgue, demanding to see his best friend. Molly had fobbed him off with remarkable poise, even though it obviously broke her heart to see John like that, to have to lie to him. Her tears had been real when John, after the fight had left him, had broken down and wept, letting Molly hold him because his legs'd have given out under him otherwise.

Sherlock, who'd been in the adjoining room, wanted to cover his ears in order to block out the desperate sobs, the grief he had caused. And yet he couldn't stay away. He had watched on the day of the funeral and also when John and Mrs Hudson had gone to visit the grave after the headstone had been errected, before he had left the country.

His mind is still occupied with all this when he realizes he's reached the fountain. Blinking into the far too feeble sunlight, he looks up at the stone angels and tries to remember the names he's given them. All he can come up with are Billy Bones, Captain Flint and Long John Silver.

John.

He sighs. Sitting down on the broad marble edge of the basin, he pulls his mobile out of his pocket and sends his partner a text: _It's different for you than it is for me. I didn't mean to belittle your motives. S._

There's no immediate answer; he'll have to wait. Which is not easy, since patience is not exactly his forte. To distract himself, he walks towards the kitchen entrance, spooking the cook - if not on purpose- and asking for a cup of tea.

"Harris bring it to your room, sir?" she asks, obviously referring to the butler of whom Sherlock hasn't bothered to find out the name yet.

"No, thank you. I'll have it here, if you don't mind."

If she finds it peculiar that he wants to stay here, she doesn't show it. Sherlock watches her while she prepares the tea; she's recently divorced with no children, and therefore glad about the long hours she sometimes works, as it is a way to escape her loneliness.

She puts the tea and a plate with some freshly baked shortbread on the table he's sat down at: _You could do with a little more flesh on your bones_ , her pointed look says. She's probably glad to be temporarily cooking for someone who isn't on a perpetual diet.

While Sherlock is drinking his tea, she begins to knead a rather large piece of dough, obviously not minding the audience at all, but chatting away. He listens to her with one ear while the other half of his attention is on his phone; he doesn't admit to himself that he's as glad about this undemanding company as the cook is.

* * *

John doesn't look at his phone that morning; he takes a long walk in Regent's Park, then makes his way over to Baker Street. By the time Mrs Hudson opens the front door, he feels much better already. He isn't angry at Sherlock either, though he'd have wished for his partner to be a little more understanding. He's vague about it when Mrs Hudson asks him how Sherlock's doing on this day, and all the more surprised when he discovers the text Sherlock has sent a few hours earlier.

He quickly answers: _I know. Next time, don't be such a prick about though. J._

Sherlock, who is back in his room by the time he gets John's answer, smiles. _When are you coming home?_ he asks.

John's answer is short but annoyingly endearing: _I'm with Mrs Hudson. Patience, my love._

* * *

"How are things, dear?" Mrs Hudson asks once they've sat down for a cuppa.

"We're getting there," John replies. "Sherlock's increasingly impatient every day. You can imagine how he's keeping me on my toes."

"Oh, yes," she answers, and something in her tone is far too mischievous to be anything but ambiguous.

She blushes when John raises his eyebrow, but can't stop herself from giggling: "I'm sorry, dear," she quickly amends, clapping a hand in front of her mouth. "It's just... I'm so happy for you two! Sherlock's always been so alone, and you- if you don't mind my being frank, the first time you came here you seemed like someone who was thoroughly disappointed in life. Now, don't call me superstitious, but I think perhaps you two were meant for each other."

Along with a surge of adrenaline, John feels a comfortable warmth in his belly which has nothing to do with the tea he's drinking; it's a mixture of pride and happiness.

"Thank you," he says, beaming at the old lady. He recalls the day clearly, how couldn't he: "You called me 'the sitting-down type'," he says.

She waves it off with a quick brush of her hand: "In that regard, I obviously was wrong," she says, "maybe because you seemed so tired."

"I was," he concedes, "I didn't sleep well at that time."

"Yes, I could tell. Now Sherlock, on the other hand- often he only sleeps when his energy has run out. At first I was worried how you two'd get on."

"Oh, right- you'd met him before, hadn't you."

"Yes, dear. And since then, we had kept contact."

"Really?" The thought seems strange.

"Oh, yes. It became more regular after Florida, Sherlock came to visit me about once a month. Sometimes he only needed a place to crash, mind you, when his own flat wouldn't do, but he always kept an eye out for me. He gave me my mobile phone for Christmas," she adds, proudly.

"I didn't know all that," John says, though it fits into the new, unfinished picture of Sherlock which he has developed during the past few weeks.

"Are you going to tell me about Florida?" he then asks.

Mrs Hudson suddenly looks much less elated: "I'm sorry, dear, but I'd rather never talk about that dreadful business again."

"All right," John smiles to show her that he understands. "Did you meet Sherlock there or have you known him before?"

"Oh, I've met him long before that," she says, much less despondent. She contemplatively looks at the ceiling for a moment: "It was quite the coincidence, one might say. We ended up on the same bench in the park twice, one day." She notices John´s confused look: "Not as in being homeless, mind you." she hurries to explain. "Not in the truest sense of the word, anyway."

"Please, do elaborate," John says, his interest definitely peaked.

"Well," Mrs. Hudson sets her cup down. "You know that my marriage wasn't a happy one..."

* * *

Yellow leaves were covering every surface, and the air had a cool touch to it. It was definitely becoming autumn in London; people were walking a little faster and often carried umbrellas with them, as the sky was cloudy and overcast, only allowing the occasional ray of sunshine to highlight the changing colours of the trees and let puddles on the pavement gleam like carelessly strewn diamonds.

The small elderly woman in the crimson coat had been sitting on the same bench in a corner of Hyde Park for several days now. She was always clutching her handbag on her lap and always wearing the same forlorn expression as she stared ahead of her. She wasn't homeless, judging by her hair, her skin, her jewellery, the quality of her clothes and also the lack of any clutter; she was easily scared, often flinching out of her thoughts when people approached the bench, especially tall, broad men. She glanced at her watch from time to time but didn't seem to be in a hurry. She looked fragile.

Sherlock had noticed her on his frequent walks through the park. He didn't come there for the scenery or any recreational purposes; it simply was the shortest route to meet with a man who might be mistaken for a banker from the looks of him, but who in reality was a drug dealer, and one of the more serious ones. Meaning he didn't do business with people who weren't serious about it, or who couldn't pay.

Fortunately, Sherlock could pay and was serious about it. He always knew what he wanted and ordered specific kinds of drugs, making him one of the better customers. They always met in broad daylight and never needed longer than a minute to exchange money for goods.

Sherlock found himself more irritably these days, but he didn't care. No one cared, so why should he. There was no denying that drugs were dangerous, and he knew that he was on the worst possible road. But what had started as an experiment out of sheer boredom had quickly gotten out of hand. And now he couldn't stop anymore, just as he couldn't stop thinking. That however was the only advantage: the drugs allowed his mind some peace. Gave him some time of blessed oblivion, which he craved. He told himself that his mind was still working as well as before, latest proof was the little lady he kept deducing.

His body however showed signs of wear. He found it harder to get moving in the mornings, was more easily tiring, and somehow, his motorical functions were affected. That was, unintentionally, how he had found himself next to the lady on the bench. His legs had been strangely wobbly all day, though he denied to himself that it might have anything to do with last night's dosage or the rather rotten quality of it, which was why he was on his way to meet his dealer.

The lady flinched, but then gave him a nervous smile as he all but collapsed onto the seat next to her. He nodded a greeting in return but was too occupied with himself to pay any more attention to her. He felt shaky and was sweating, and even though he had been walking at a leisurely pace, he felt out of breath.

"Are- are you all right, love?" the lady asked, rather timidly so, and eyed him worriedly.

"Yes," he ground out, "thank you. It's just... a cold."

"Ah." She looked at him for a while longer, but seemed to sense that he didn't want to engage in further conversation.

As soon as he had himself under control, he stood up and left without a greeting.

 

The dealer did not take his complaint kindly; in fact, he wasn't a man who'd take any complaints at all, paying customer or not. He told Sherlock to piss off and find his stuff somewhere else in the future, and when the young man had turned around and gone back the way he had come, he had given one of his bodyguards, of which he always had one or two around, a nod to follow him.

As a Londoner, you always knew some handy shortcuts; unfortunately, those often were narrow lanes and corners between houses in which, if someone decided to rough you up, you were pretty much helpless and alone.

 

When Sherlock passed through the corner of Hyde Park a little while later, he was even more unsteadily on his feet; his dealer's lackey had given him a good punching, which Sherlock not only was furious and indignant about, but which also had left him bleeding. He pressed his handkerchief against his cheekbone with his left hand and his right arm against his aching ribs. Damn, it hurt. The brute had had a sound right hook, and Sherlock began seeing spots as he was staggering along the path. At one point he felt like passing out, which was why he ended up on a bench again, only narrowly not missing it. _The_ bench. The little lady was still there.

"Good grief!" she exclaimed. "Have you been mugged?"

Sherlock, not quite having regained his senses, peered at her from under his hand: "I wish," he said.

* * *

John stares at her: "So what had happened to him?"

She shrugs, obviously uncomfortable with naming it: "He had a rather unfortunate run-in with his dealer."

"His..." John looks at his empty cup. "So he really did take drugs."

"Why, yes," Mrs. Hudson clearly is still not happy talking about it. "He was very unhappy and lonely during that time. He felt that he didn't fit in anywhere and just didn't know what to do with his life. So I hired him."

"But- that was later, wasn't it."

"Yes, of course. On that first day, I took him with me and patched him up."

"And he voluntarily went with you?" John looks doubtful.

Mrs Hudson nods: "Yes, dear. I think perhaps he was curious about me, as he had seen me a number of times already. You see, my husband was at work. He was rather heavy-handed with me when he was at home, and I couldn't stand being alone in our flat most of the time. I didn't have anything to do, so I went to the park every day, telling myself there'd be less dread if I was outside."

"I'm sorry to hear that, Mrs Hudson."

"Thank you, my dear."

"How did you end up in Florida then?"

"He was offered work there, and it was understood that I accompanied him. When we got in trouble, I hired Sherlock. And he came to Florida."

"But- that's certainly not what cleaned him up, was it?"

"Well, not immediately, no. The story was a little more complicated. Back in London a while later, Sherlock nearly overdosed. His brother took care of Sherlock then, but he didn't know me, so I only found out later."

"So Mycroft- what? Forced him to undergo detoxification and therapy?"

"Yes, he did. Sherlock went through a terrible ordeal, my dear, but he was strong enough to get through it. You see, the drugs... that hadn"t been him. He had been lonely, that's why he took on that nasty habit."

John smiles: "I'm sure he wasn't anymore, not after he had met you."

"No, not until my husband and I moved to Florida, at least."

"Oh. Right."

Mrs Hudson eyes him affectionately: "But now he's got you," she says, and John understands much better why she is so happy about it.

* * *

John comes home in the late afternoon. The doctor throws his jacket onto the bed, then walks over to where Sherlock is sitting in one of the chairs and bends down to kiss him hello, which is reciprocated.

When he straightens up again, Sherlock studies him: "Mrs Hudson told you."

John considers to at least try and feign cluelessness, but he knows it'd be futile. He also knows better than to ask how Sherlock knows.

"It´s quite a story," he says calmly, sitting down on the armrest of the chair.

"I'm not exactly proud of it," Sherlock replies, rather haughtily.

John regards him with kind eyes: "It seems Mrs Hudson and you have met at the right time."

"Yes..." Sherlock sounds different now. Almost timid. "We were bad off, both of us. The difference was that while in Mrs Hudson's case she wasn't at fault herself, I was entirely responsible for my situation. Stupidly so. I... have made a lot of mistakes in my life, John."

John leans forward and kisses him once more, a gentle nuzzle of his lips: "You're not going to repeat them," he says confidently.

Sherlock however isn't so easily reassured this time: "In the light of that and what has happened recently, even what happened today, I'm a horrible person, John," he says. "What if you won't be able to tolerate me any longer one day? I always say things which are wrong by common standards, or do things which repulse others. I'm not .. _nice_ most of the time. What if I drive you away by just being me? Even you can't be patient enough to endure my being me at my worst, and what is going to happen then? I'll try not to be me so much, but frankly, I'm afraid I will be a horrible partner!"

He has talked so fast that John didn´t manage to interrupt him, but now he seems to have run of words.

"Sherlock," John says gently, tentatively putting his hands on his shoulders and pulling him close: "You are not as horrible as you seem to think," he says, kissing Sherlock´s temple. "On the contrary. You wouldn't even worry about all this if you were. _You_ are wonderful, and special." His hand flattens out above Sherlock´s heart, feeling for its beat: "This is what keeps you going, not your brain," he continues. "Though your brain definitely plays a part in what makes you wonderful. You'd be boring if you weren't exactly the way you are."

Sherlock wants to interrupt, but John doesn't let him: "Yes, sometimes you need reminding of what's proper at a crime scene or in social contexts in general, but that's what you have me for, among other things." He kisses him again. "Believe me, Sherlock, I don't want to flatter you when I say that you are a good man."

Sherlock breathes into the crook of John's neck, sounding calmer as he speaks: "I never want to irritate you," he murmurs. "It just happens."

"And sometimes you do it for fun. Admit it."

"Well... yes."

They laugh a little.

"Why are you so sure that we can't be together?" John asks then, even though he's not sure he wants to hear the answer.

"I'm not," Sherlock says. "I just don't trust myself."

"I've already told you that you won't lose me," John mutters. He presses one last kiss on Sherlock's temple, then lets go of him: "I'm starving. Isn't it time for dinner?" Mycroft usually preferred to eat early, and John and Sherlock had usually joined him recently.

Sherlock shakes his head: "The cook told me Mycroft is going to work late for the rest of the week, he'll eat in his club. So we're flexible."

"The _cook_ told you."

"I had a cup of tea with her. Well, _at_ her."

"I won't even ask."

Sherlock smirks, but quickly sobers up again: "Do you feel better now?" he asks, and it takes John a moment to realize that he means the anniversary.

"Yes," he replies, "I do." Nevertheless, it's a tremendous relief to be here with the living evidence that he can really leave that dreadful day behind him.

* * *

That night, John can´t find much sleep either. He lies awake until the small hours of the morning, wrapped around Sherlock in a possessive and protective way. He has no plans for his life, no idea what is going to be in ten years' time, but he will do everything in his power to keep Sherlock.

Holding him in arms feels so tremendously good and right, and he loves listening to Sherlock's breathing, occasionally snuffling in his sleep. Sometimes he mumbles, rather incomprehensibly, and his deep voice reverberates through John's chest.

He does not once move away from John, but huddles in on him as close as he can, as though he's afraid that the doctor might vanish if he didn't. John gently nuzzles Sherlock's temple with his lips: "You're not going to lose me," he whispers, hoping with all his might that he'll be able to keep this promise.

**To Be Continued  
**

**Thank you for reading!**

Please leave some feedback.

**Additional author's note:** The backstory of Sherlock and Mrs Hudson as mentioned here relates to my story "Baker Street" and depicts their acquaintance during the time before John as I imagine it in my headcanon.

 

 

 

 

 


	16. The Empire Strikes First

**Disclaimer** : Sadly, I do not own Sherlock Holmes or any recognizable character and am not making any profit by using them.

**Author´s notes** : Thank you all very much for your support! And what do you say- a rather quick update for a change!

Enjoy!

 

**Hazard Control  
**

 

Part 16: The Empire Strikes First

 

 

Two days later, John gets a call from an unknown number. He frowns as he picks up: "Hello?"

"John?" a female voice asks; he quickly recognizes her as Clara, Harry's ex-wife. Her anxious tone doesn't bode well.

"Yes, it's me."

"Harry's in hospital."

It's not the first time he's heard this sentence, but it's alarming nevertheless.

"What happened?" he asks, while is whole body is suddenly tense.

"I'm not sure," her voice is quivering, "I found her in the kitchen with muscle spasms. It looked like she had a kind of seizure. The doctor says it might be a form of poisoning."

John's thoughts are racing, which is not exactly helpful. "Did she smell of alcohol?" he asks, because he needs to know.

"Maybe, I don't know... I'm sorry, John, but I panicked, it's all a bit of a blur... they intubated her, in case her respiratory centre was affected." Her voice falters at the last words.

"I'll come," John says, realizing he won't get much more out of Clara now. "I just need to organize a car. Where is she?"

"Queen's Medical Centre, it's on Derby Road."

"Okay, I'll find you."

"Drive save." Clara sounds constricted as she rings off.

* * *

"Take Mycroft's car," Sherlock says immediately after John has told him.

"I want to drive myself," John says, "I'd go mad just sitting there in the back, waiting."

"That's doable. Do you want me to come with you?"

"Preferably yes, thank you, but no," John says, "you're still officially dead, it's too risky."

Sherlock swallows his protest because this clearly isn't about him. He picks up his phone instead and calls his brother, telling him that John needs a car which he would prefer to drive himself, no questions asked.

"If he is upset for some reason, which is very likely since it seems to be an emergency, he probably shouldn't drive himself," Mycroft says, but Sherlock tells him John has been very clear about that and can be utterly stubborn if he wants to.

"Fine," Mycroft concedes, "you know where to find the keys, I presume."

With a smirk, Sherlock puts the phone down: "Come on."

* * *

Five minutes later, they are standing in the former stables, and John is staring at the black Jaguar in front of him. It looks brand-new, dreadfully expensive and very sleek, the mechanical equivalent of a race horse.

"Are you sure-" he begins, but Sherlock only presses the keys into his hand: "Absolutely. And don't worry, he's very well insured."

"Why does Mycroft have a car at all?" John asks, ignoring the last remark,"he's got a whole fleet at his beck and call at the ministry anyway, hasn't he?"

Sherlock shrugs: "He likes to be prepared."

"Huh."

As John eyes the car now, there's a new gleam in his gaze which hasn't been there before.

"I see," he murmurs, but his thoughts clearly are already on the motorway.

"Don't break the speed limit too often," Sherlock advises. "I'm not sure Harry will thank you if you end up in police custody tonight."

The mention of his sister tears John out of his reveries: "Right," he says, nevertheless, "what makes you think they'd catch me?"

Sherlock chuckles.

John pulls him close for a goodbye-kiss, already sorry he has to leave: "I'll call you when I have news."

"I'll wait for it." The warmth in Sherlock's gaze makes John feel a little better.

* * *

Mycroft Holmes leans back into the seat of his ministry car and exhales; he has done something which rarely happens to him, namely made the spontaneous decision to call it a day three hours earlier than intended. He can't even say why, as he usually hates to leave his office before he's finished whichever task was keeping him occupied, but he couldn't properly concentrate today, as his thoughts were with Sherlock, and more so than usual.

On the way to his club he caught himself thinking that he'd rather have dinner with his brother than at the Diogenes, and told his driver that he'd decided to go home instead. It'd only be him and Sherlock tonight, after John has been called away. Which most probably has got to do something with his sister, he muses, for John's sake hoping that she hasn't taken up drinking again.

He is pulled out of his thoughts when the car turns onto the drive to Holmes Manor and slows down. Unexpectedly, however, it stops, coming to a complete halt, then the partition window which separates the driver and the passenger cabin slides down: "I'm sorry, sir," Jones says, "but the gate won't open."

Frowning, Mycroft nods and pulls out his phone: "Thank you. I'll call security."

 

Security however doesn't answer; a pang of nervousness makes itself known in the pit of Mycroft's stomach. He tries Sherlock's phone, to no avail. No one answers the landline either; quickly assessing who else is in the house apart from the butler, he calls the kitchen, but the cook doesn't pick up.

Mycroft's nervousness turns into anxiety; he takes a few deep breaths in order to keep his mind from reeling, but the thoughts are there nevertheless. How could he be this stupid, he chides himself, he should have known something was wrong the minute Sherlock demanded a car for John. He should have checked, should have made sure his brother wasn't left alone. Oh God, Sherlock.

With trembling fingers, he calls his head of security at his office, then, taking another deep breath, he leans forward to address his driver: "Mr Jones," he says, finding his throat unpleasantly dry. "I can't wait until help arrives. I need to get in somehow."

The estate is surrounded by a high stone wall topped with two neat lines of diagonally alternating wrought iron spikes, a relic from the time before electronic surveillance. Impossible to climb on your own, but if Sherlock managed even though he was injured, there must be a way to do it. Mycroft briefly wonders why he hasn't thought of that before, but quickly dismisses the pang of anger at this additional proof of his own carelessness, as it isn't serviceable right now.

Simultaneously, he and Jones get out of the car and begin to walk along the wall. Mycroft unlocks his phone again and tries to log in to the house's security system, but the cameras don't seem to be operating. Good, he thinks grimly. It means at least no one is able to watch from within. Which also is a bit amateurish, in his opinion, because it's giving him the small advantage that he'll get in unnoticed, hopefully.

 

After a few minutes of half-walking, half-running and some rather annoying _bushwhacking_ through a hedge where the wall met the adjoining property and turned a corner, Mycroft stopped. There was a dent in the wall where one or two of the old stones have crumbled; if Jones gave him a lift, he might use it as a foothold, gaining just enough leverage to jump over the spikes without spearing himself.

"There," he points at it, a little breathless.

Jones eyes the wall doubtfully: "Sir, wouldn't it be better if we waited for reinforcements?"

"Can't." Mycroft's already taking off his jacket, taking his phone out and slipping it in his trouser pocket; he seems to be doing an awful lot of climbing these days.

* * *

John is determined to keep Harry out of his mind while he drives, tries to quell his anger at the notion that it very possibly is alcohol which has triggered whatever happened to her. He's much too fast, but he couldn't care less. He keeps on the right lane and is grateful for the car's powerful engine.

Out of habit, he glances at his mobile phone and discovers that he's got one missed call. He half-smiles; probably Sherlock, wanting to be entertained. He wonders if it's normal to be already missing his boyfriend after such a short time.

With one eye on the road, he unlocks the phone. His smile falters when he sees that it's Mycroft who's tried to call him. He already has an uneasy feeling when he presses the call-button, and when Mycroft doesn't answer, his stomach gives a nervous jolt. John next tries to reach Sherlock, who doesn't pick up either. Immediately, his stomach drops, and the anxiety he now experiences is somehow much worse than the concern for his sister.

John doesn't need to think about what to do; he turns back towards London at the next junction. Harry will understand, hopefully. She'll be all right. And she's got Clara, he reminds himself in order to quell the feeling of guilt. It's quickly drowned out by worry anyway, but if he is honest with himself, he'd always choose Sherlock over his sister. It's him he wants to spend the rest of his life with, after all.

* * *

When Mycroft lands on the soft lawn on the other side of the wall, one of his trouser legs is ripped, his hands are bloody and his back is wet with sweat. Mycroft doesn't heed any of it. He's already forgotten Jones, his whole attention is on the house as he is bracing himself. Sunset has already set in, though he'll still be plainly visible; he'll have to try and approach the house by hiding behind whichever plants are sufficiently large enough.

For the first time in his entire adulthood and since he actually can remember, Mycroft Holmes runs.

* * *

John tries to reach Mycroft's number again in regular intervals. When the man finally answers, he seems breathless and speaks in a whisper. He briefly tells John what happened and actually sounds relieved when he hears that John is on his way back.

The doctor grips the steering wheel so hard that his knuckles are turning white; there's nothing for it now but to try and keep calm. Sherlock's words from earlier come to his mind ("Don't break the speed limit too often") and the irony hits him hard as he steps on the accelerator, full of trepidation.

* * *

Sherlock has been playing his violin for most of the late afternoon and early evening. He didn't notice that the butler neither came to collect the tea dishes nor reappeared to ask for dinner preferences. He was composing, thinking about John and the press, grandma, Greenland and the dragon in no particular order while he jotted down notes and tempi.

There was a very satisfying aspect about composing he'd always appreciated; it brought double results and helped him to focus. It visualized not only his mood but also the logic of his mind. A wrong tone usually indicated an error in thinking.

It is beginning to get dark when he puts down the bow in order to switch on a few lights. His gaze falls upon the teapot when he turns, untouched by Sherlock and still sitting under the tea-cosy as the butler has left it. A glance on his watch confirmes that it is half past seven. Peculiar.

He is debating going down to the kitchen to investigate when the door to his room opens. For a moment, Sherlock thinks the matter is about to clarify itself; it isn't the butler who enters however, but a stranger.

Sherlock freezes. The man is unknown to him and yet has an air of familiarity, reminding him of someone. His gaze is hard, giving him a distinctively feral look. He seems... ruthless. Vindictive. Dangerous. He is working as an assassin on a freelance basis- no. Not an assassin, nothing so refined; a man for hire, most likely, but that's not why he's here. He is looking for revenge.

This impression is confirmed by the gun he is carrying and calmly aiming at Sherlock now: "Sherlock Holmes, I presume," he says, his voice level. "My name is Alistair Moran. I believe your brother's lackeys have killed _my_ brother on your behalf."

Sherlock's brain is racing, and with a sinking feeling, he realizes what his subconscious has been trying to tell him all this time. He has read that Moran had a brother who was missing in action. He hadn't checked that fact, and this is the consequence. A wrong tone. John hasn't been the target anymore, not after Sebastian Moran had been shot; he has.

Without further ado, Moran steps forward until he stands right in front of the detective. Even in the darkening twilight, Sherlock can read his eyes: there is pure, unadultered hatred and something else, something which is far more alarming: calculation. Not surprising, considering that he has made it past Mycroft's security and has somehow managed to lure John to Nottingham (for Sherlock is certain that is's no coincidence Harry's in hospital just now); he has carefully planned this. The advantage is on his side.

With a sardonic sneer, he raises one arm and presses the muzzle of his gun against Sherlock's forehead, audibly releasing the safety catch: "You are going to die," he says softly, "but I won't make it too easy for you, of course."

Sherlock can see Moran's body tensing up, catches a motion in his peripheral vision and knows what's coming, but he can't move in order to avoid the fist which is swinging towards him; reflexes would have Moran pulling the trigger faster than Sherlock'd be out of the way.

With a sickening noise Moran's hand collides with Sherlock's recently healed temple; the pain which shoots through his head is taking his breath away, leaving him gasping and dizzy. He staggers, unable to keep himself upright, and only barely manages to grab the back of the nearest armchair to steady himself. His violin has clattered to the floor, and he hopes it didn't break. However, when a second blow follows, Sherlock finds himself on the floor as well. He is trembling with pain and can feel blood running down his face; he feels woozy and nauseated and also slightly ashamed. He should be able to defend himself, he has been in enough fights during the past years, after all, but momentarily he can't even push himself up on his arms.

Additional pain, raw and cruel, explodes through him as Moran kicks him into the abdomen, and for a moment, Sherlock thinks he is going to throw up. He can barely breathe as it is, and instinctively curls in on himself. _How humiliating_ , a small voice in his head says. _What an undignified way to die_.

_Not helping_ , John's voice answers, to Sherlock's surprise. _Shut up._

John. Sherlock's glad he's not here and at the same time wishes he were.

Sherlock however doesn't have time to dwell on this, because Moran is pulling him upright by his hair, spreading further agony through his already tormented head and leaving him no choice but to follow. His legs barely work and he's actually glad when Moran unceremoniously drops him, consequently dealing him another blow to the head.

While Sherlock is doing his best not to black out, Moran props him up against the case of the bed and pulls a couple of cable straps out of his pocket, which he uses to quickly fix the detective's wrists to the wooden posts on either side, stretching his arms wide; unfortunately, Sherlock is in no shape to resist, as he's weak as a puppy, much to his own annoyance. Soon, he is shaking with the effort of keeping himself upright to ease the strain on his wrists and shoulders. It's hard, just as it is hard to arrange his face. He can feel his hand going numb as the blood circulation is nearly cut off, and his stomach is still lurching. It is difficult to assemble his thoughts, but he tries in order to evaluate his chances.

If Moran has taken out security as well as the cook and the butler (who are the only ones of the staff still present at this hour of the day), then there's simply no time for anyone to come to his aid. He is not so naive as to assume that Moran's preparations don't include Mycroft. A thought which does alarm him to a greater extent that he'd have expected; furthermore, a thought which he needs to ignore for now.

"I'll shoot you," Moran says. "In a way which is painful, but doesn't kill you for a few minutes. Enough time to think about why you had to die." He looks around the room. "Your _doctor_ will be inconsolable, of course. He will probably blame himself that he wasn't here to protect you."

He bares his teeth in a humourless smile. "He'll have to find someone else he can shag." The smile turns into a grimace of distaste: "Bloody shirtlifters, the lot of you. How someone like you could be Sebastian's downfall is beyond me."

"Your brother fell in with the wrong crowd," Sherlock manages to get out, though his own voice sounds alien to him. "It's his own fault that he ended up like that. He'll have known the risks his line of work inhered, just as you do." Which earns him another kick, effectively winding him.

As Moran gets to his feet, Sherlock assembles all the energy he can muster and pushes himself forward as far as his bound arms allow, scissoring his legs around Moran's in the attempt to topple him over. Moran loses his balance and stumbles, but Sherlock doesn't have enough leverage to keep him down, and the pain on his wrists is overwhelming.

The killer quickly gets to his feet and kicks the detective's legs aside, crouching down in front of Sherlock and grabbing his throat: "I want _your_ brother to find you," he hisses. "Dead, bled out, here in this house in which he's hidden you. I want him to realize that there's nothing he could have done to save you." He squeezes just enough to cut off Sherlock's air supply until his vision reddens. Then he abruptly lets go and gets up.

Sherlock blinks rapidly a few times; his voice is hoarse and he can hardly get the words out, but he does his best to glare at Moran, even though is vision is blurred and it's gotten even darker in the meantime: "He will hunt you down."

"He'll never find me."

"He will. He is the best."

Moran only smirks: "Only one way to find out, then." He points his gun at Sherlock's chest.

 

The detective's thoughts return to John. He wouldn't care about dying if it weren't for the doctor; he doesn't want him to have to grieve anew, and with the firm knowledge that this time, Sherlock isn't going to come back. Sherlock is grateful to have had this brief relationship with John, this blessing of having someone who cared for him so deeply and whose feelings he reciprocated. If only it wouldn't leave John so bereft.

While he concentrates on these thoughts, he stares up at Moran as defiantly as possible, not wanting to give him the satisfaction of appearing defeated, but his heart aches for the man he loves. This time, it's not in his power to trick death.

Sherlock watches as Moran's triggerfinger flexes, but then there's a sudden flurry of movement and a noise, and almost simultaneously, the shot rings out through the room.

Moran slowly topples to the side, landing on the rug with a heavy thud. Sherlock, stunned that he has not been shot, stares from his attacker to his brother, who stands right behind where Moran has been, an iron poker in his raised hands. His face is red and fierce. He bends to pick up the gun which Moran has dropped, expertly securing the latch. Moran looks up at him, dazed but with a murderous expression.

Mycroft straightens up and brushes an invisible speck of dirt from his shirt: "Found you, saved my brother. I believe that this validates his statement as accurate: I _am_ the best. Even though I do prefer to let others do the dirty work." He regards Moran with a look that is usually reserved for something unsavoury underneath his shoe.

Just as he looks at Sherlock again, Moran produces a knife from a small pocket of his vest. Of course. He probably has at least one other weapon hidden somewhere on his body.

"My-" Sherlock gasps, which is all he can get out, and his brother, without hesitation, brings up the gun he is still holding and releases the catch: "Drop it!"

Moran scowls, but doesn't do as he's told; he obviously thinks he doesn't have anything to lose.

Mycroft however doesn't tarry either; before Moran has the chance to use the knife, he shoots him in the shoulder.

The force of the impact propels Moran backwards, and he lies motionless.

"Idiot," Mycroft says with grim satisfaction, though he appears to be shaking.

 

At exactly this moment, the door bursts open and Mycroft's reinforcements come in. With a strange detachment, Sherlock watches as Mycroft quickly briefs his people; someone immediately crouches in front of Sherlock, cutting through the cable straps and releasing his wrists.

He sags, his arms dropping like stones, and he grimaces as the blood returns and with it, a prickling and burning sensation. The same person is trying to take his pulse and asking all kinds of questions, but Sherlock ignores them and bats their hands away, his eyes never leaving his brother. Who, a few minutes later, dismisses the annoying fussing person and kneels in front of Sherlock himself. His gaze roams over him with unmistakable worry: "Are you all right?"

If Mycroft uses commonplaces like that, he must be looking really bad, Sherlock thinks.

"I'm fine," he murmurs, but he can't subdue a wince when he sits up a little straighter. "You've been running."

"Yes."

"You've been running and you've climbed a tree."

"Yes."

"And you took out Moran."

"Yes."

"You probably should wear a cape when you're doing things like that."

"Oh dear. I think you might have sustained a concussion."

"Mycroft."

"Yes."

"Thank you."

"You're welcome, Sherlock."

Almost hesitantly, Mycroft puts one hand on Sherlock's shoulder for a few seconds. Later on, he can't tell whether he just imagined it or if Sherlock really leaned into the touch ever so slightly.

"Can you get up?" Mycroft asks, and Sherlock nods. But then he realizes that it's not true; his legs feel like jelly, and he is still dizzy. Whenever he moves too much, the room begins to sway.

Wordlessly, Mycroft supports Sherlock; his hands feel as strong as ever as he gently helps his brother to stand, then eases him down on the bed, where he sits with hunched shoulders. He looks battered, which probably also has a lot to do with injured pride, but at least he's alive.

* * *

Miraculously, John isn't stopped by the police even though he consciously breaks several laws in order to get back as fast as possible.

When he turns onto the drive, the gate is open and flanked by two black cars. John identifies himself and is waved through.

There are more black vehicles of varying sizes and purposes parked in front of the main entrance, and people in either suits or combat gear are swarming about. John's stomach drops further when he sees two ambulances amid the hustle. The cook sits in the back of one of them, wearing a shock blanket and being tended by a paramedic.

Just as John enters the hall, a stretcher is being carried out, strapped to it an unsconcious man who thankfully is not Sherlock. But there's another stretcher coming, and whoever is lying on that one seems to be dead, for the body is covered up completely.

For a moment, John doesn't breathe at all, then he steps forward and stops the stretcher: "Who's this?" he demands, his tone commanding even though his throat is tight. The men in charge seem at a loss whether to answer him or not, but John doesn't wait, he simply lifts the blanket and sees for himself. The relief when he realizes that it's not Sherlock either is mingled with surprise when he recognizes the butler, but he doesn't hesitate any longer. Ignoring the protest which follows him, he runs up the stairs. And nearly barrels into Mycroft as he turns the corner.

"John." The older Holmes is pale and looks most unusually dishevelled.

"What's going on, where is he?" John's voice is thin with barely subdued anxiety. "Is he all right?"

"He's fine, apart from a few bruises and scratches," Mycroft replies. "Ms Singh is with him."

Relief makes John weak in the knees. He supports himself on the banister with one hand and balls the other into a fist, digging his nails into the palm just to feel that he's not dreaming. It takes a moment until he thinks he can speak again, or stand upright for that matter.

"Are _you_ all right?" he then asks with a pointed look at Mycroft's torn trouser leg.

Mycroft's eyebrows rise almost imperceptibly at the question. "I am, thank you." He glances down. "Though my suit is a write-off, as they say."

Every fibre in John's body itches to get going, see for himself that Sherlock is in one piece, but he feels that he can't just let Mycroft stand there.

"What happened?" he therefore asks.

Mycroft fills him in on the known details, and it is evident that he feels rather shaken in hindsight: "We'll question him as soon as possible," he says, "but it seems that Mr Harris has been his accomplice, informing him about the specifics of my whereabouts and this house. Moran apparently shot him when he was no longer of use. It's been sheer luck that I got home earlier today, and that Moran didn't get wind of it in advance."

John, who had paled further when Mycroft told him about Moran's attack on Sherlock, feels an odd combination of protectiveness and cold fury: "The ambulance is probably still downstairs. I have half a mind to go and add my personal opinion to that little shit's injuries."

Mycroft watches him with a curious expression: "He'll get what he deserves," he says, "rest assured that I'll see to that. It's not him whom you should concern yourself with right now, however."

John exhales slowly, nodding: "I know," he mutters, avoiding the other's gaze. His skin is crawling with unreleased tension.

"Go to him," Mycroft says gently. "He can probably use some comfort right now, though he's most decidedly not in shock, of course."

* * *

John stops in the doorway. As though he has sensed his partner's presence, Sherlock, who is having the blood on his face wiped away by Surinder, looks up and meets his gaze. He is as pale as Mycroft, and when he gets to his feet, his movements are slow. He subconsciously wraps his arms around his body in a way that suggests he's either in pain or cold, or both. With the way his shoulders are hunched however, it's probably the first.

John takes in all this within milliseconds, and he only now fully comprehends Mycroft's words, realizing that Moran would have killed Sherlock if his brother hadn't been there in time.

The emotions he's going through are showing on his face: worry, dismay, protectiveness, sympathy, love. In the end, there's mainly relief and affection as he finally moves towards Sherlock, despite the rather short distance half-breaking into a run so that he comes to a somewhat abrupt halt in front of the detective.

It doesn't matter that they are not alone, he can't and he doesn't want to stop now. He pulls an unresisting Sherlock into his arms and just holds him tight: "You're all right," he breathes. "You're all right." He can feel Sherlock sagging against him and shivers with the realization how much he loves him. After a few seconds, he draws back just enough so he can see Sherlock's face, still too agitated: " _Are_ you all right?"

_Of course I'm all right_ , Sherlock wants to say, but he can't seem to find his voice, and when he does, it's full of indignation: "That's it. We're going home."

Despite the only slowly abating terror and the fact that they are both shaking, John chuckles, then begins to actually laugh. He sounds hysteric, and when he stops, there are tears in his eyes.

Surinder, who has tactfully drawn back a little and busied herself with her supplies, now offers a glass of water to John: "Drink this," she says with her melodical voice, a subtle suggestion to let her get on with her work.

* * *

Ten minutes later, Sherlock's temple as well as the rest of him are clean of blood and there's a piece of gauze over the wound and a bandage around one of his wrists, giving John a bit of déjà-vu. The detective is very slightly concussed, but hasn't thrown up and insists that he doesn't need to be coddled.

"I'll take care of the rest," John says, shaking Surinder's hand: "I've never said thanks in the first place. Or goodbye, for that matter."

Surinder smiles: "That's okay. I prefer not to make a fuss."

When she has left, John closes the door, then returns to Sherlock, who has just been to the bathroom. He is holding himself rather stiffly, despite his words.

Like a magnet, he and John seek each other's contact, arms winding around each other and noses pressed into the other's skin, inhaling, feeling their respective heartbeats.

"Now let me see the rest of you," John says, after a while. Sherlock gives him an almost amused look which John chooses to ignore, and slowly unbuttons his shirt. There aren't any bruises visible yet, though the area just below his navel is angrily red and slightly swollen.

John's jaw is set firmly as he gently palpates Sherlock's abdomen, which is tender to the touch, but he doesn't think there are any inner ruptures; there are no indicators for internal bleeding, for which he is grateful.

Sherlock looks down on John's hands while he's being examined; it calms him immensely.

* * *

"You should lie down," the doctor says when he is done. Sherlock objects: "Not on the bed."

Therefore, they retreat to the sofa after having changed into their nightclothes. Gingerly, Sherlock curls up on his side and rests his head on John's thigh. His partner's gentle fingers card through his hair, careful to avoid the tender skin around the wound.

"I didn't check Moran's family," Sherlock says abruptly, "a stupid and unforgivable mistake."

"You couldn't know that there'd be siblings involved," John says, reasonably.

Still, it rankles.

"Speaking of siblings," Sherlock replies rather morosely after a moment, "what about Harry?"

"I had to make a choice," John answers, and Sherlock can tell that he feels guilty despite his firm tone. His hand moves to caress Sherlock's cheek: "I can't help it, you know? You feel more like family than she does."

In fact, he has called Clara back from the car, who was remarkably understanding. Not surprisingly though, he thinks now, considering how he must have sounded. There was dread on both ends, but Clara had talked to a doctor in the meantime, and she sounded quite confident. John realizes that he hasn't memorized anything she had told him about what the doctor had said.

" _You_ 're my family," he repeats, pensively.

Sherlock turns his head and very gently bites into John's thigh as an answer.

**To Be Continued  
**

Feedback welcome!

 

 


	17. Hearts of Gold

 

**Hazard Control  
**

 

Part 17: Hearts of Gold

 

 

Late that night, Sherlock gets out of bed with measured movements, careful not to wake John. He puts on his dressing gown and some socks and leaves the room. Silently, he pads down the gallery on the other side of the stairs; the carpet is soft beneath his feet and reminds him of times long gone, because the feeling is familiar, just as the texture of the ivory doorhandle under his fingers, worn smooth by all those years of use.

Mycroft's door opens without any sound, and Sherlock slips into the room equally unheard. He can make out the shape of his brother on the bed; Mycroft is snoring ever so softly. As a little boy, Sherlock sometimes sought comfort here when night-terrors had woken him up, or upon waking in the night and being too scared of the darkness around him to go back to sleep alone. He'd run to his brother's room and crawl into his bed. Mycroft almost never woke, for he was a heavy sleeper, but that was all right; his presence usually calmed Sherlock, and he would listen to Mycroft's gentle snores until he dozed off.

Trying not to disturb the sleeper, Sherlock tentatively sits down on the edge of the bed. The light of the moon filters in through the half-closed curtains. His brother looks younger in sleep, all lines of worry smoothed out, face slack. For a moment, Sherlock is glad on Mycroft's behalf. He has taken on a lot of responsibility early in life; he's predestined for it, it seemed, but maybe people have been making the wrong assumptions. Maybe he didn't want all those burdens, has just, at one point, grown accustomed to them.

He hasn't always been so stiff; he's never been partial to physical activity or socializing with friends, but Sherlock recalls, now that he allows himself these thoughts, that Mycroft could be quite funny when he wanted to. He'd make Nuffles talk and could act out little bedtime stories by using the shadows of his hands. Of course, that had been before he'd moved out, before their grandma died, the horses had been sold and life had become unbearable in this house.

Somewhere deep in his mind Sherlock is aware, with a suitable amount of guilt, that in all these years he has often acted like a spoiled child. Not once has he taken Mycroft's side into account, has albeit taken his brother for granted. And Mycroft, no matter what he was doing at the time, had been there, had kept an eye out for Sherlock and come to his aid if need be, despite the knowledge that his help was unwanted, and thinking that his brother hated him.

 

When the guilt becomes too much, producing a hot, churning sensation in his throat, Sherlock reaches out and touches Mycroft's shoulder. It takes a good few minutes until he is more or less awake.

"Who... Sherlock?" he asks hoarsely, propping himself up on one pillow. "What's the matter?" There's worry in his voice. Astonishment.

"I don't hate you," Sherlock says, annoyed that he sounds so choked.

Mycroft studies him in the feeble light they have: "So you've hinted at." His tone is calm, careful. Waiting for more, probably, but Sherlock's throat feels constricted all of a sudden. It's impossible to speak now.

Mycroft looks at his brother, whose eyes are large in the moonlight, making him appear vulnerable. He's stronger than he seems, of course, but right now, Mycroft sees the little boy in front of him, the little boy who trusted him.

"I just wanted you to know," Sherlock murmurs once he can speak again, and Mycroft smiles: "I appreciate it."

His smile turns serious: "However, that may change yet again," he says, and his tone is much graver all of a sudden- regretful. "If you hear what I've got to tell you." And knowing that he cannot heed John Watson's words in this case, he speaks of Jim Moriarty and how he, Mycroft, has used Sherlock as a bargaining tool.

"I gave him what he needed," Mycroft says, stricken, "which means that I am to blame for everything that has happened in the meantime."

Sherlock remains silent for so long that Mycroft truly fears he has made a mistake in telling him. Perhaps he _should_ have minded John's words rather than give in to sentiment.

When Sherlock finally says something, there's no scorn in his tone, no disappointment: "You told him everything about me."

"Yes."

"You knew full well what he was capable of."

"I... yes."

"You didn't think he'd be able to use the information, since you thought _someone_ would be able to protect me. You underestimated him."

"Yes." Mycroft's voice is thin now.

Sherlock sighs, then he laughs a little, quietly. "That was really stupid of you, brother. It seems we're even then."

"Excuse me?"

Looking at his hands, Sherlock shakes his head:"My behaviour towards you has been... inexcusable. Asinine. As was your decision concerning Moriarty. It seems we've reached a tie."

Mycroft blinks: "That's it? You're not calling me a... a moron or declaring war on me?"

"No," Sherlock says tiredly. "I'm not going to say something insulting about your diet, either."

"I didn't expect that," Mycroft replies softly.

"And still you told me the truth," Sherlock states. "Must be a chemical defect." Which, he knows now from personal experience, is a strong motivator that is not only found in the losing sides.

"Probably," Mycroft says, smiling tentatively at that.

"None of us has John's heart of gold," Sherlock murmurs after a few seconds of silence.

"No, indeed not," Mycroft concedes. "But maybe what we have will be sufficient nevertheless. If we make it so."

* * *

When Sherlock returns to his room, it's already getting light outside. John is sitting up in bed, blinking and looking tousled: "Where were you?"

"I've been talking to my brother," Sherlock replies while he crawls back into bed. "We may have to spend Christmas with him."

He wasn't extraordinarily surprised about Mycroft's revelations, and it didn't really matter. If anything, it proved that Mycroft wasn't infallible. Furthermore, Moriarty could easily have obtained the information he wanted through other means.

At least it had set things in motion; who knew how long Moriarty would have taken to act, how much longer that insipid game of his would have lasted, when he would have struck.

John, remembering Mycroft's words about Christmas dinners, decides not to dwell on this cryptic remark now, but gently winds his arms around Sherlock as they settle into the pillows, both lying on their side so as to be able to look at each other: "Please tell me that it really _is_ over now," he murmurs.

Sherlock studies his face: "It is," he replies. "And I'm glad you're here and not in Nottingham."

"Me too." As if on cue, they both move even closer together until they are in perfect kissing distance.

* * *

"There are many people out there who are homophobic," Sherlock says a while later, after they have come up for air.

John tries to read him, wondering where this is stemming from: "Yes, there are. Why?"

"Nothing. It's just something Moran said. He was feeling that his brother's honour had been sullied, seeing as he died because of someone like me."

Immediately, John's blood is boiling: "I wish I could have kicked him in the nuts," he says, heartfelt. "And apart from that, his brother didn't _have_ any honour to speak of."

The corners of Sherlock's mouth twitch ever so slightly, but he still looks contemplative: "Do you think that will happen a lot?" he asks. "Once word gets out that we're together, I mean."

"It might. There are enough idiots out there, after all. Does that bother you?"

"As long as they don't say anything about you, I'll be fine." There's a fierce protectiveness in his voice.

John sighs: "And if they do, just ignore them. Not worth the trouble."

The glint in Sherlock's eyes disagrees, but he keeps silent.

 

"How's your head?" John asks.

"Fine."

"Sherlock-"

"Smarting a little. No need to fuss."

"I'm not _fussing_ , you idiot!"

"It'd have been my fault if Harry had died," Sherlock murmurs.

"No, Sherlock. It's Moran who'd be to blame."

Sherlock's eyes roam over John's face, taking in every detail: the lines around his eyes, the way his mouth curves into an affectionate smile. The shape of his nose. All the little parts of the jigsaw which forms John on the whole. John, who is so generous. "I love you," he murmurs.

John thinks he can see the echo of fear in his gaze. It is incomprehensible that Sherlock would have been killed if Mycroft hadn't intervened. It must have been a narrow escape if Sherlock felt compelled to talk to his brother afterwards, in the middle of the night at that. If he feels compelled or even wants to spend Christmas with him all of a sudden.

"And I love you," he answers. Simultaneously, they are pressing closer together again. It doesn't matter that Sherlock's abdomen is still tender; John's belly is soft against his, their breathing in the same rhythm. John is grateful that he hasn't lost Sherlock a second time. A jolt of anxiety runs through him whenever he thinks about it.

 

He can feel that Sherlock is slowly falling asleep; his breathing is gradually deepening, and his head, which is lying against John's collarbone now, is becoming heavier.

John gently reinforces his grip around the man in his arms, listening to his heartbeat and the soft snuffling against his skin, aware that they represent the most precious things he can think of this morning.

* * *

They sleep late. John wakes before Sherlock, and even though he's still tired and doesn't feel particularly well-rested, he gets up, letting Sherlock sleep; he needs to call Clara and hear how Harry's doing.

Clara sounds tired as well, but it seems that Harry's on the mend; she has woken up briefly, but wasn't able to remember what had happened. John doesn't tell her about the connection to Moran yet; he isn't ready for the commotion it'd cause. Instead, he calls the doctor in charge, who confirms that it's been a kind of poisoning, very likely caused by something like ivy berries. Highly toxic if dosed properly, but not necessarily lethal. There was no alcohol involved, about which John is glad.

 

After he's made sure that his presence in Nottingham isn't required, he hangs up, relieved. He didn't fancy leaving Sherlock now. Who begins to wake up when John returns and slips back under the duvet, stirring ever so slightly when the doctor nestles close. Sherlock's temple is beginning to bruise, a stark contrast to the white gauze, emphasizing the force behind Moran's hits. Accordingly, Sherlock groans when he wakes up, mumbling something about infernal headaches and mindless brutes.

"Do you want to stay in bed?" John asks, but Sherlock refuses: "No. I want to go home."

"Today?"

"Yes, today."

* * *

Going home is a quiet affair. Sherlock has changed into the corduroy suit and, after some deliberation, packed the blue jumper into his bag. There wasn't much to pack apart from that: night-clothes, necessities, violin, underwear, socks. After some more deliberation, he has also taken _Smilla's Sense for Snow_ with him. Leaving his grandma's room after more than six weeks feels strange; with one long last look at the dragon, he turns to go.

Mycroft isn't there for goodbyes, of which Sherlock is secretly glad; his brother is at work, dealing with the aftermath. John has talked to him about Harry in the morning, and Mycroft promised to have a look into it.

 

When John and Sherlock emerge from the car in Baker Street, Mrs Hudson has already been waiting; John has called her in advance to give her a heads-up, so she isn't too shocked when she sees Sherlock.

"Thank goodness that all this has an end now," is all she says with one glance at his temple and the bruises which are beginning to show at his throat and which aren't quite concealed by his scarf, embracing him: "Welcome home, dear."

Sherlock holds on for a few seconds longer than he usually would have, and allows Mrs Hudson to kiss him on the cheek before they let go.

As the weather continues being abysmal, she has already gotten a fire going; the flat is cosy. Sherlock stands motionlessly for a moment, just looking around, letting 221B sink in. Home.

John is glad to see him like this, in these surroundings, wearing his suit and coat as usual. His hair has regrown somewhat, making him look more like himself.

* * *

While Mrs Hudson busies herself in the kitchen, John and Sherlock take their bags to the bedroom. _Their_ bedroom.

John puts down his bag and turns to Sherlock, smiling. It's a marvel that this is really happening, that they are a couple rather than flatmates now. That Sherlock has let him in and actually wants to be in John's life too.

Elated to be here, to be together, they kiss. They don't take too long, aware that Mrs Hudson is still there, but the secrecy is rather delightful.

By coincidence, Sherlock's gaze falls on the nightstand; there, in a broad wooden frame, is a picture he hasn't seen before. It's a detail of an old painting, a dragon... he looks to John, who smiles hesitantly.

"You're amazing," Sherlock murmurs, reaching out and cupping John's cheek in a tender gesture. John seems relieved, as though he hasn't been sure whether this really was such a good idea. He turns his head and presses a kiss into Sherlock's palm, his eyes never leaving him: "Anything for you," he says, it's as simple as that.

* * *

Later that afternoon, Mycroft drops by. Mrs Hudson, who can't seem to keep herself away from her boys for too long and had just brought by a batch of self-made scones, surprises them all when she blocks his way into the living room and hugs him, briefly but fierce. Then she excuses herself and flees into the kitchen to put the kettle on, dabbing at her eyes with a hanky.

For a moment, nobody moves, then Mycroft shakes himself and clears his throat before smiling at no one in particular.

"It turns out Moran is being wanted in several different countries," he says, once he's sat down in one of the chairs, "under different names, obviously, but they all mean him, undoubtedly. He's facing several life sentences, in fact. And that's only what we know so far."

John purses his lips in a way that means he's still not entirely content with that and would prefer to personally strangle the bastard.

"It is furthermore very possible that he's had an accomplice who took care of your sister," Mycroft continues, looking at him. "The police have arrested two suspects, who are currently being interrogated. We'll know more when Moran and your sister are fit to be questioned." His eyes are glinting, reminding John of Sherlock's expression early this morning.

"I have got to say I am sorry," Mycroft then says. "I'll have to restructure my security model. It shouldn't have been so easily penetrable."

"Yeah, but he had help," John offers. "The butler presumably let him in, didn't he?"

"I think so." Mycroft knows better than to be appalled by the disloyalty Harris has shown, after having worked for him more than 10 years.

"At least Moran didn't kill the cook." Sherlock's contribution to the conversation is unexpected; he has taken his bow and begun to apply resin, seemingly distracted, but John has noticed that his hands were shaking ever so subtly and that he simply needed something to occupy himself with.

"No, that's true. It seems Harris had put a sedative into her tea so he could let Moran in. She was lucky she had passed out."

"Well, that's something, isn't it?" John looks from Mycroft to Sherlock. Who smiles, ever so faintly, and glances at his brother: "Told you," he murmurs, wiping down the bowstring. "Heart of gold."

* * *

When they are finally alone, Sherlock takes his violin out of its case and puts it on its stand, which is about as much unpacking as he's planning to do for now. He looks around once more; living in Holmes Manor has admittedly had its advantages, but already it seems that in hindsight, the house appears suffocating. Here, he can breathe.

He turns and joins John in the bedroom; the doctor stands with his arms crossed, contemplating: "We'll need a second wardrobe, or either a bigger one."

Sherlock reaches for his hands, unfolding John's arms and pulling him towards the bed: "Whatever is best for you. But not now."

John grins: "Losing no time, I see."

Sherlock is moving gingerly, but undressing each other still doesn't take long. The detective's abdomen is also showing bruises by now. John cautiously strokes along their edges: "What a bastard," he mutters.

They crawl under the covers naked, shuddering at the initial coldness, but that quickly changes due to their combined body-heat; they huddle together, kissing, caressing. At one point, John stops worrying that he might aggravate Sherlock's injuries, in fact, stops thinking altogether. He has taken the precaution of purchasing a few items at the chemists which are coming in handy during the course of the evening. If Sherlock is surprised, he doesn't let it on; probably because John is mostly in charge of buying supplies anyway. Maybe in his opinion, that stretches as far as lubrication and condoms as well.

* * *

It's late when John ventures into the kitchen to organize some food. He shouldn't be surprised, but of course, Mycroft has taken care of that as well, as if sensing that John wouldn't have the time to go shopping before they'd move back. He returns to the bedroom with a tray carrying some of the fresh rye bred Mycroft's cook is famous for, some cold chicken, cheese, grapes and champagne. Maybe it's Mycroft's idea of a joke, maybe he thought it's appropriate after everything that happened. John's thoughts briefly wander to Lestrade, and he smiles to himself.

Sherlock lies huddled into the sheets, staring up at John with a pensive expression as the doctor puts the tray on the nightstand.

John sits down on the bed and regards him, wondering what's going on in Sherlock's mind, whether he's okay now that _it_ has been accomplished.

"Are you all right?" he asks, reaching for Sherlock's hand.

The detective laces their fingers together: "Yes."

"But?"

"It's a strange business altogether, isn't it?"

John chuckles: "Yes."

"It takes a certain amount of practice, presumably," Sherlock adds. His face is so serious that John can't but laugh.

"What's so amusing?"

"Nothing," John tries to get a grip on himself. "You are." He raises their joined hands to his mouth and kisses Sherlock's: "I wouldn't call it 'practice'," he elaborates. "It's a matter of being comfortable with your partner, and being honest with each other. If there's something you don't want or don't like to do, you have to say it. One shouldn't expect the other to do anything he's not willing to, and respect his wishes."

Sherlock expression softens, and he pulls John towards him with a strength he didn't yet possess a few weeks ago, and about which the doctor is glad.

"I liked everything we did," he murmurs, wrapping his arms around John, and now there's a smile in his eyes.

John manages to free one hand, with which he now caresses Sherlock's face: "Me too." His gaze wanders over Sherlock's features before meeting his eyes again, sighing a little: "You're beautiful, Sherlock."

Sherlock snorts, half-amused, half-dismissively: "I certainly am not."

"Yes, you are. You're the most beautiful man I've ever met."

"You're obviously wearing those infamous pink goggle-thingies. You're not impartial when it comes to me."

"Only you can manage to squeeze modesty and overconfidence into one sentence. You beautiful man."

"Stop that. You sound like GQ."

"And yet I'm right."

Sherlock huffs: "I'm not a fairy."

"No." John's eyes are full of warmth. "You're a human being. And to me, you're beautiful."

_Mr Punchline_ , John thinks fondly when Sherlock murmurs: " _Handsome_ , maybe."

"Very much so, yes. I just love you in your corduroy suit and your coat..."

"Now _that´s_ flattery, Dr. Watson."

"Duly noted, Mr Holmes."

Sherlock presses his face into John´s skin. "What else?" he asks a while later, very quietly.

"What else what?" John asks a little drowsily, as he was on the point of nodding off.

"What else do you like?"

"About you?"

"Yes."

"Hm... I like your scent. I like your funny hair."

"Why´s my hair funny?"

"It´s tufty. I like it."

"So you said. And I don't agree, by the way. It's not _tufty_."

John chuckles: "Yes, it is. I can always tell when you've been running."

"Can we agree on another word than _tufty_? I'm quite sure it doesn't even exist."

"I'll think about it."

"What else?"

"I like your hands. I like watching when you're using them. For example when you're fiddling with something."

"I never _fiddle_."

"You _always_ fiddle."

"No."

"Yes."

"No."

"Do you want to hear the rest or not?"

"Hm..."

"I like your voice. It's smooth and... rich. It's like dark chocolate sometimes."

"Really?"

"Yes. Which is why, by the way, I'm going to demand equal apportionment in reading terms."

"We'll see about that."

"Yes, we will. I can be very persevering."

"I know." Involuntarily, Sherlock smiles.

"I like the way you are carrying yourself. You always seem elegant."

"Donovan would say pompous."

"Which is not appropriate at all. You're just graceful. Oh, and I like it when we're meeting somewhere and you're standing there, waiting for me."

John runs his fingers along the shell of Sherlock's ear: "Honestly, I can go on all night if you let me."

Sherlock grins into John´s shirt: "By all means, do."

John tickles him: "You wish."

Sherlock's curiosity isn't completely satisfied yet: "So, what do you like _best_?" he asks.

John doesn't even need to think about that. "The way you say my name," he replies. "No one else says it like that."

"I certainly hope so," Sherlock grumbles, but his eyes are full of affection as he regards his partner now.

* * *

It's nearing midnight when they lie back down. Despite having eaten, they're both a little tipsy from the champagne. Sherlock, who's been taking Ibuprofen, knows full well he shouldn't have drunken so much, especially since he rarely ever does anyway and isn't used to it at all.

Hang the consequences, he thinks however, they've waited for this for so long.

With slightly uncoordinated movements, he begins to remove John's t-shirt. The doctor complies to being undresses and giggles when Sherlock's fingers brush over a ticklish spot: "Should I also sleep naked from on?" he asks, beaming at Sherlock.

Who shakes his head: "No. This is much more fun."

"Naughty."

"Shut up."

John however has another question: "What did you mean when you said to Mycroft 'Told you, heart of gold'?" he asks.

Sherlock pauses, the corners of his mouth pulling up a little: "I just stated the obvious while talking to him," he replies.

"Oh yeah?" John watches him with an amused expression. "Maybe it's your turn now."

"My turn?"

"Of telling me what you like about me."

"Now?"

"Yes, now."

"No," Sherlock says, "it can wait a little longer. For _now_ I've got other ideas..."

And John doesn't really protest.

 

 

**To Be Continued**

 

Thank you for reading! Please leave some feedback!

 


	18. A Time For Everything

**Disclaimer** : Sadly, I do not own Sherlock Holmes or any recognizable character and am not making any profit by using them.

Thank you all for reading and your kind words!

Apart from that, this part's got a lot of fluff, among other things.

Enjoy!

 

**Hazard Control  
**

 

Part 18: A Time For Everything

 

 

Sherlock awakes in the dark; for a moment, he is confused and slightly alarmed, not knowing where he is and sensing that he isn't alone, but then he recognizes it is John, sitting on the edge of the bed and stroking him. Sherlock immediately calms as tender fingers are running along his temple, his cheek, his jaw. Sherlock´s own hand creeps up to meet John´s, which stills for a moment before their fingers entwine.

"I didn't mean to wake you," the doctor says, apologetically.

Sherlock hums: "Couldn't sleep?"

"No. I woke up and... had to make sure I wasn't dreaming. Tell me I'm not imagining this, Sherlock."

Sherlock gently squeezes the other's hand: "You're not."

"I want to be with you," John whispers, and his voice is almost desperate. "I know it sounds... needy, and clingy, and probably pathetic, but I want to be with you. I... I want to feel you and hear and taste you, Sherlock. I want your scent on my skin. I want people to know that we belong together."

Sherlock sits up, his hand never letting go of John's: "You're not pathetic," he mutters. John shivers, and Sherlock thinks that maybe it's all been too much for him recently. Because John looks sturdy, people sometimes tend to underestimate how sensitive he really is. Sherlock has seen his other side though, and it seems that the doctor has reached a point at which he can't be strong any longer.

Sherlock tentatively pulls John close, wrapping his arms around him and leaning back against the headboard; he can feel the other's head resting heavily on his chest, his breath warm and moist on his skin.

"This heart of mine," he says so softly that it's almost a whisper as well, says it directly into John's ear, "it's where you reside. For years it's been empty, as though it'd not been there at all. You remedied that." He runs the tip of his nose along the curved shell: "I'm all yours, John."

The doctor gives a shaky laugh and presses more tightly against Sherlock: "I love you so much," he breathes. He's trembling, so Sherlock gently reinforces his grip: "I love you too."

 

For most of his life, until all this started, Sherlock thought that people were overusing the term. It didn't seem realistic to him that anyone would say it more than once after entering a relationship, since the parameters were clear, after all: if you agreed to have a commited relationship with each other, it meant you cared about each other enough to want to share certain things, ergo, there had to be love involved, or at least very strong feelings. He didn't see why one had to reassure the other so often.

He has not expected this actually existing need of simply expressing just how strongly he is feeling, or that it would feel so good to say it. And yet it does, and he finds that he likes saying it to John, or hearing it from him.

John gradually stops trembling, and eventually falls asleep. It doesn't matter that Sherlock's position is rather uncomfortable with the way he is hunched against the headboard, or that he is getting a little cold; all that matter is John, whom he wants to feel safe.

He does sleep a little; at one point, John sighs and rolls to the other side, clumsily freeing himself from Sherlock's embrace without coming to; he likes to sleep on his belly. Sherlock, having woken up when the other man moved, slides further down and stretches out next to John, one arm around the doctor.

* * *

They wake up face to face. Maybe there's been a sound, maybe their dreams were connected; their eyes open quite simultaneously, and they just look at each other in the twilight of dawn, expressions open and unguarded, their eyes telling of love and gladness that the other one's there, hasn't been a figment of their respective imaginations. In this state between sleep and wakefulness, the world is softer, has no edges; everything is possible.

"You've changed everything," Sherlock says in a low voice which is still slightly hoarse from sleep. A smile flitters across John's face, visible only in his eyes and the corners of his mouth.

"You wanted to know what I like about you," Sherlock continues slowly, his eyes unhastily roaming over his partner's face. His voice is like a caress.

"You've changed how I feel about my body. It's not just transport anymore, John... My hands want to touch you all the time, it's only ever been like this with my violin before. And... that's not all... I want to feel your skin on mine... I want to see you, your smile. Kiss you. Have you kissing me." His gaze is affectionate as his hand wanders up to John's jaw, his ear, long fingers trembling ever so slightly.

"I feel alone when you're not in the room," Sherlock murmurs, "I can feel it in my back and my shoulders and my wrists. And my belly. I don't think it's normal, but that's how it is. It doesn't feel right when you're not there. Do you think it's possible to miss someone like that?"

"Yeah," John's voice is equally low, and he sounds a little choked. "Yeah, I know what you mean."

"I like how you look at me," Sherlock whispers. "Even when you're disagreeing with me. I like how you laugh, and how you cry. How you sound when you sleep." He sounds contemplative now: "I think _you_ are beautiful, John."

"Now you're just out of ideas," John teases him in a soft voice, but his eyes have lit up.

"No..." Sherlock studies him, eyes pale and yet so intense in the soft morning light. "It's true."

"No one ever said that to me," John whispers, mesmerized by Sherlock's affectionate gaze.

"People are idiots," Sherlock replies, at which they both chuckle a little.

John hums: "So... what do you like best?"

Sherlock doesn't hesitate either: "That you love me."

Because it's either that or bursting into tears in a rather unmanly fashion, John pushes himself towards Sherlock and kisses him, tenderly and hungrily. He knows that there won't be too many moments like this, because Sherlock doesn't like to be vulnerable, even with him. He is going to savour this as best as he can, and he 's certain he's not going to forget this morning again. Sherlock is warm and precious under his touch, and his back still tingles with goosebumps at the other's words.

They don't get out of bed so soon that morning.

* * *

"What does that mean?" John asks, pointing at the framed picture above Sherlock's bed depicting something written in Chinese letters. It's the small hours of the morning, a few days after they've come home; it seems they've given up on their normal sleeping routine for the time being. The first few days back at home were accompanied by heavy rain, which both of them were absolutely fine with, since they didn't have to go anywhere. It brought a sense of serenity too, being a good excuse not to want to leave the house.

Which they don't need, really; until Sherlock's official return, he is supposed to stay hidden anyway. John is impressed by Sherlock's unexpected and newly-found patience, but on the other hand, they've been occupying themselves well enough. With each other, for a start.

John has no idea that Sherlock is forcefully reigning in his eagerness for progress because he wants his doctor to have a bit of respite. In the past months, it's been all about him, Sherlock, and now it's John who needs a reprieve, even though Sherlock would love nothing better than to immediately pick up where he left off.

Mycroft is working on setting up a press conference; until then there's some more waiting anyway. Which is just as well, Sherlock tells himself, as this at least is different from other, similar situations. He doesn't get bored, for a start, since there's still so much he and John don't know about each other (John has developed an almost frightening obsession with photo albums, having found a few old ones in Sherlock's chest of drawers).

The picture in question is just another proof of that when Sherlock explains that it's a Judo certificate.

He stretches his arm and runs his finger along a few of the letters: - シャーロック・ホームズ "That's my name."

"Cool," John murmurs, impressed. "Where did you learn it?"

"In Japan."

"Jap- when were you in Japan?"

"After I graduated from uni."

"What did you do there?"

"Nothing. I just wanted to get far away."

"And you learned Judo there."

"It's a long time ago," Sherlock replies, "I have forgotten most of it, I'm sure."

"It might come back in case you need it."

"Wasn't very helpful so far," Sherlock states, referring to Moran. He refrains from telling John about the assassin which had attacked him right here in the flat during the case with the Black Lotus; to this day, the doctor doesn't know about it, and Sherlock intends for it to stay that way.

* * *

While John regards Sherlock with a rather pensive expression, a frown is slowly beginning to form on his face: "When are you going to tell me about it?" he asks.

"About what?" For a moment, Sherlock thinks John is still talking about Japan. His expression is suddenly much more serious, though, and he's got a furrow on his brow.

"About what happened during your absence. And... on the roof. I still only have the vaguest idea. It's okay that you didn't tell me about your past, but... we've waited long enough with the other stuff, don't you think?"

Sherlock exhales through the nose. "I can tell you now," he says, hesitantly. Not a trace of his usual self assurance.

"But?"

Sherlock sits up, avoiding John's gaze and looking at his hands which are for once not fiddling with anything.

"You do have a picture of me in your head," he replies, very quiet now. "Some of the things I have to tell you might not fit into it. I... had to go far out of my way sometimes."

"I know. You said so in one of the recordings."

"Yes, well..." Sherlock finally looks up at John. "You might not like what you hear."

"I didn't expect that anyway," John says, fondly. "It was a difficult time for you, after all. And I've seen you afterwards."

"Yes." Sherlock's voice is grave. He likes to think that he doesn't give a damn what other people think about him, but it's not entirely true. And it certainly isn't true at all when it comes to John.

He wants John to hold him in high esteem. He wants to shine for him.

Which is also the reason why he has decided not to show John the photos he's saved on his phone; it's enough if Mycroft's people have got those.

"Hey," John sits up as well and gently cups Sherlock's cheek with one warm hand. "If you think I'm not aware what those months might have entailed, you're underestimating me."

"Sorry," Sherlock murmurs, leaning into the touch ever so briefly before visibly bracing himself: "Well, then."

He doesn't look at John while he talks about Moriarty and his intricate web of lies and deception, of how widespread it was, how much effort it took with every step on the way to make sure not to run into a trap, to always be one step ahead once certain people had gotten wind of the fact that someone was infiltrating their ranks, taking down one sub-organisation after the other, sometimes several at once if luck would have it.

He doesn't mention fear or loneliness, hunger or pain or coldness, repulsion or despair, anger or confusion. He sticks to the facts, unaware that the echoes of all the other things are showing on his face while he's talking about them. But even without them, John'd know; he still has the memory of Sherlock's recordings in his head, every single one of which slowly falls into place now.

* * *

When Sherlock falls silent after what may have been two hours, John has a very vivid idea of the scale of the whole operation, and is rather impressed that it hasn't taken longer. It's furthermore become clear that Sherlock had to be ruthless to achieve his goal. John has assumed as much, of course, but to hear it from him in person is making his heart ache nevertheless.

He's been to war in Afghanistan and London, he knows how it feels to take a life. One never gets used to it, and Sherlock isn't even a soldier. Not like him. And Sherlock certainly isn't a killer.

John understands now that part of the condition Sherlock was in when he arrived at Holmes Manor was due to that; of course, what the doctor has just heard about the methods of traveling Sherlock had to use at times and how he sometimes didn't dare to risk staying even in the most dire of lodgings, or not having time to find something to eat or the opportunity to rest, also plays a role, but he can imagine how Sherlock has been repulsed by his own actions, terrified even by what he had to do.

It's one thing to throw an attacker out of the window, but having someone else's blood on your hand is probably enough to make any man refraining from food and sleep or any other personal care. And Sherlock evidentially isn't at all as heartless as he made himself out to be before the whole matter.

John sighs, eyeing his partner attentively: "I know I've said so already, but I wish I could have been there with you," he murmurs.

"It's over now," Sherlock replies in a flat voice. He can't handle any more emotions right now, therefore he still doesn't look at John.

Who waits a little; when Sherlock doesn't say anything else, he tentatively puts his hand on the other's arm: "Sherlock."

He can feel him trembling ever so slightly.

"Sherlock," he repeats, "my picture of you is still the same. Or no, maybe not entirely- I think you're even more wonderful now."

"How can I be _wonderful_ after all that?" Sherlock asks, his voice unsteady. "I know it was necessary, and If I had to, I'd do it all again, but it certainly doesn't make me a good person."

"You're wonderful because you are trembling now," John says, calmly. "You're wonderful because you're shaken by what you had to do."

His eyes are smiling: "You're wonderful because of this heart of yours which doesn't seem to give you a break."

Sherlock scowls, but he subtly relaxes a little. "I shouldn't have said anything about my heart," he grumbles, making John chuckle.

"I won't mention it again," he promises. "Unless it's an emergency, of course."

At that, Sherlock finally looks at him: "I appreciate your concern," he says in a soft voice, "but you don't have to try and make it better."

"I know." John's gaze roams over his face, taking in the small frown which is still there: "Thank you for telling me."

Sherlock hums, slowly shifting so that he's lying down again, face turned towards John. He stares at nothing in particular, blinking a few times; his dark lashes are in strong contrast to his alabaster skin once more.

John shifts as well, propping himself up on one elbow while the fingers of his other hand find Sherlock's neck, gently playing with the curls of Sherlock's hair.

 _Darling_ , he thinks, though he'd never say it out loud. There are a few things Sherlock would definitely not tolerate even from him.

* * *

On the following day, Harry calls. John, feeling guilty and contrite, answers his phone with a sense of remembered trepidation; he only ever felt like this after deliberately destroying something that belonged to his sister, which happened a few times during their childhood and adolescence. Only this time, it's got nothing to do with a beheaded action figure (Harry never had a penchant for Barbies) or a cut-up t-shirt. He's all the more dumbfounded when his sister sounds neither angry nor disappointed, but rather cheerful.

"Just wanted to tell you I'm home now, and I got your surprise," she says, and he thinks he can hear her beaming.

"Er-"

He's lucky that Harry doesn't let him get a word in: "It's very decent of you, Johnny," she continues. "At first I thought you'd forgotten about me, but this... wow. I even feel guilty for doubting you."

John still has no idea what she's talking about.

"And tell Sherlock's brother my thanks, will you?" Harry says, sounding a little more serious now. "Agent Gibson came to the hospital and talked to me and the doctor. He told me what happened at your end. I still can't remember what happened, but at least it's not my fault this time."

"I'm so sorry about all that," John says, feeling awful now. "You shouldn't have been drawn into all this, Harry."

"I know. But it's not your fault either."

"Maybe not, but I should have- I don't know. I had to turn back when I heard what was happening, I couldn't simply drive on." Saying it like that, he still feels like a traitor. "I'm sorry," he repeats, lamely.

"Hey," Harry's voice is soft. "He's your... significant other, right? And you didn't know what going on with him." There's no hint of mockery in her tone, nor disdain.

"I didn't know that about you either."

"No. But you couldn't very well have split yourself in two, could you."

John is getting really curious as to what kind of present Harry's supposedly received from him.

"No," he agrees. "That's true."

"I'm all right, bro," she says now. "How's Sherlock doing?"

"He's bruised and a little shaken, but... he's alive. It was a close shave though."

"Tell him I said hi."

"I will."

"Okay. I'll ring off now, Clara's made some tea. Take care."

"You too. Bye."

John rings off with the suspicious feeling that he should call Mycroft to investigate, but before he can do so, his phone alerts him that a message has arrived:

_Took the liberty of negotiating for you. Photos enclosed. MH_

The first picture shows a large gift basket, filled with some fancy delicacies such as Swiss chocolate and Danish smoked cheese. A second picture shows a card, and if John wasn't so sure he didn't write it, he'd have thought he did, for it definitely has his handwriting and his signature. The text says _A sorry excuse for my not being there. I hope you're recovering well, I can't get away here until IT is official. Love, John_

John thinks he now has an inkling as to why Sherlock feels controlled by Mycroft sometimes, but on the other hand, he is relieved. Harry really has been the last thing on his mind during these past days, but the guilt he's been feeling upon hearing her is already ebbing away again.

He texts a reply: _That's very decent and more than a little intrusive of you. Thanks. J_

Mycroft's answer doesn't take long: _Anytime, John._

* * *

Apart from taking care of Harry, Mycroft has organized a press conference at which an agent of his, DI Lestrade and Sherlock are going to be present. A carefully chosen journalist of the Times has already been briefed by the same agent and will exclusively write about Sherlock's return and the reasons for his fake suicide.

Sherlock does not look forward to it, nor does he appreciate the interview with Mycroft's agent which is going to take place beforehand, or the official statement he has to give Lestrade at the same occasion, so that they can talk tactics. They have set up a meeting at Baker Street, and Sherlock doesn't seem surprised when he sees that it's Sally Donovan who's accompanying the Detective Inspector.

Lestrade didn't tell her why they were going to 221B of all places, only that he needed a witnessing officer, and when they enter the flat, a shocked silence spreads throughout the room. Mycroft's agent is the only one who seems unperturbed.

"You- that's..." Sally struggles for words, "he-"

"Sergeant Donovan, you seem uncharacteristically dumbfounded," Sherlock says, not heeding John's audible groan. "Let me assist you there: The freak's not dead. Good, now that that's settled, we can move on."

" _How_?"

"You'll hear it all in a minute." Sherlock says, obviously enjoying himself. "Tea?"

* * *

Lestrade feels a little mean as he watches Donovan having difficulties believing what she's seeing, or hearing for that matter. He decided to take her along however, there's no going back now. He wanted to push her, either into apologizing or into taking the next step, which in this case would mean transferring; either way, he doesn't want to maintain the current state any longer. Something has to happen, and this is how he is going to initiate it. He pondered this step for quite some time, and now, even though the feeling of being mean is growing stronger at that, he is suddenly glad about it.

Donovan hardly talks during the interview, and when they leave, Lestrade already knows what she is going to do, can read it in the way her jaw is firmly set and she is avoiding his gaze. Still, he doesn't feel guilty; on the contrary, he thinks he's done the right thing.

"That leaves one Molly Hooper," John says, after everyone's gone. He's sitting in his armchair and watches Sherlock's victory pace; he's all but dancing through the room.

Sherlock gives an annoyed sigh: "Can't you let me bask in my well-earned glee for a just a few minutes longer?"

"Revenge is cheap, Sherlock."

"But it is oh so sweet as well! And I doubt that Donovan will want to work with Lestrade much longer."

"Yeah, I didn't think he had it in him."

"You don't know him."

" _I_ don't know him? _You_ didn't even know his first name until recently!"

"Details." Sherlock is far too elated to take the bait.

"What about Molly, then? Shouldn't you give her a fair warning before the press gets wind of anything?"

"We're not going to mention her."

"No, but she might not want to feel left out anyway. It doesn't feel too good, you know."

"I know. Thank you kindly." Sherlock finally drops into his armchair, still exuding an air of barely subpressed gloating. "I'll give her a call. Tonight."

"Good." John eyes him fondly.

* * *

If Lestrade thought he'd seen the most chaotic press conferences yet, he's wrong; the moment Sherlock enters the room everything changes. The attendees have been left completely in the dark about what was going to expect them, but all of them have a very clear idea who the man is that has just come in, even though his hair's shorter and he's neither wearing his iconic dark coat with the red stitchings, nor the infamous deer-stalker the press had come to love.

The quiet, slightly annoyed murmuring which fills the air comes to an abrupt halt.

Very briefly, it's completely silent; seconds later, it's a riot. Every single one of the present reporters wants to get to the front, and the cameras won't stop flashing anymore.

Sherlock endures it all with a mask of indifference, doesn't react to the excited voices who are all calling his name. Inwardly though he's glad about the men of Mycroft's security who prevent the mass of sensation-seeking people from coming too close. Kitty Riley's not there incidentally, undoubtedly Mycroft's doing as well.

When the panel is finally seated, the air is buzzing with excitement and curiosity. Thanks to Mycroft's agent, who expertly moderates the conference, there's some kind of order to the questions which are being asked, and between the three of them they manage to convey the key data and most important points. The chaos has been mastered.

John and Mycroft watch the spectacle on a monitor in the next room.

"He's doing well," John says, unnecessarily, and Mycroft nods, equally unnecessarily.

* * *

That evening, John and Sherlock are sitting on the sofa, or rather, John is sitting and Sherlock is lying with his head on John's thigh. John is reading to Sherlock, whose nose is pressing into John's hip; it's his way of snuggling as close to the other man as possible in this position. They have pulled the curtains close because even at this time of day, there still are some reporters outside.

They have not turned on the TV at all, because Sherlock isn't interested to see himself on the screen, and he feels drained. He only wants John right now, whose voice is immensely calming and whose arm around his shoulders feels warm and comforting.

When John is too tired to read on, he slides down and stretches out next to Sherlock, who is already sleepy.

They don't talk, they simply move closer together and allow themselves to drift off into oblivion.

 

**To Be Continued**

 

Thank you for reading! Please leave some feedback!

 

The info about the Judo certificate as well as the letters of Sherlock's name can be found on Sherlockology.

 

 

 

 


	19. Resounding

**Disclaimer** : Sadly, I do not own Sherlock Holmes or any recognizable character and am not making any profit by using them.

Thank you all for your feedback!

Enjoy!

 

**Hazard Control  
**

 

Part 19: Resounding

 

 

Over the course of the next few weeks, John and Sherlock slowly adjust to their new life in 221B. Out of habit, John sometimes heads for his old bedroom instead of the one which was formerly known as Sherlock's room, and usually is already halfway up the stairs when he notices.

They have rearranged Sherlock's furniture a little to make space for a second, if narrower wardrobe, and Sherlock has actually thrown things out in order to empty half of his chest of drawers for John. Who wasn't allowed to watch while his partner did that, and he kept teasing Sherlock with it: "Come on, tell me. What was it? Embarrassing underwear? Oh, no, wait- dirty magazines?"

Sherlock only gave him a death glare at that, and John couldn't but snicker.

Sherlock has quickly taken up his experiments again, and John suspects that his willingness to call Molly had something to do with that; she's the one he usually went to for the more gory supplies, after all. So far, no unfavourable things have turned up in the fridge, however, and the experiments have mainly been chemical and apparently more for entertainment than research.

The first time that an unforeseen deflagration has the glasses in the kitchen rattling, John can't but grin rather stupidly before dutifully going to check on Sherlock.

* * *

The reporters keep pestering them for a while, beleaguering the house despite the continuously dreadful weather, but the interest slowly decreases when it becomes clear that neither of the inhabitants is available for further comments.

Even Mrs Hudson bravely turns her chin up whenever she needs to go out, and Sherlock told John that her umbrella's got a few new indentations which can only have come from fighting her way through the crowd.

"You're making that up," John laughed, but Sherlock shook his head: "I bet she enjoyed it."

Mrs Hudson at any rate keeps quiet about it.

* * *

Sometimes they sit on the sofa, huddled close together under a blanket as long as the nights are still cool and sharing a mug of tea while watching the late-night movie. Sherlock doesn't always pay attention, but John doesn't mind as long as he doesn't spoil the plot for him by telling him his deductions about it (which are nearly always correct).

Not long after the press conference, Lestrade had called Sherlock to a case for the first time. He and John were just assembling the new wardrobe (meaning John was making use of the hex-wrench which came with each piece of IKEA furniture and Sherlock was making fun of the assembly instructions while giving John a hand) when the call came, causing Sherlock to nearly drop a wooden door on John's head. The accident was avoided however, and John, after seeing how his partner's eyes lit up when he listened to the Detective Inspector on the phone, didn't need much convincing to postpone the job and come along to the crime scene.

Lestrade still didn't know about the precise nature of Sherlock and John's relationship, and the detective intended to keep it that way for the time being. A part of John was fine with that, another part of him would have liked nothing better than to brag a little.

 

As soon as they had entered the crime scene, everyone who was present seemed to freeze, pausing whatever they were doing, and staring at Sherlock. John saw how he tensed up ever so slightly, squaring his shoulders and bracing himself for whatever was going to happen.

He didn't expect the applause which followed. A few people simultaneously started to clap their hands, and the others quickly joined in, some of them smiling, others bowing their heads in mute acknowledgement.

Sherlock's ears turned pink when he realized that the Yarders were serious about it, and didn't seem to know where to look. When one after the other came up to him to shake his hand once the applause had died down, he barely managed to speak, only muttering his thanks under his breath.

In between, he turned and looked at John, as though seeking his support; the doctor nodded at him when he did, silently encouraging him. Lestrade, who had stepped aside to be out of the way, was looking on with a curiously proud smile on his face.

Later on, when John and he were in a cab back to Baker Street, Sherlock hardly spoke; he still hadn't recovered from the surprisingly warm welcome. John had just put his hand over his and kept silent as well, wanting to give Sherlock the time he needed.

"Sentiment," the detective muttered when they climbed up the stairs to their flat, and the doctor wisely didn't say anything to that.

* * *

When the sun finally decides to make an entrance and announce the belated start of summer, it feels like it has never been different. At the same time, _everything_ is different.

For example, there's the fact that John sometimes still expects Sherlock to react in a way he might once have done, and then feels surprised when he doesn't. Even though Sherlock has proven that he can still be as acerbic as ever when dealing with Sally Donovan, he's definitely changed. John's already noticed it while they were still at Holmes Manor, but here in their old flat it seems more pronounced. Maybe the fact that he's in a relationship now is contributing to that as well. John isn't one to look a gift horse in the mouth, however, and simply enjoys their bond.

By explicit mutual consent, it seems a given that certain boundaries simply don't exist anymore. They frequently shower together, for example; their initial shyness has definitely abated somewhat, as they have become more familiar with each other's body. It doesn't mean that showering together necessarily leads to sex every time; it's just an further testament of their closeness.

* * *

"How are things between the two of you going, my dear?" Mrs Hudson asks John one morning. The two have gone to the shops together; it's the first time the pavement in front of 221B is journalist-free.

"It's going well," John says, subconsciously breaking into a smile.

"I thought so. It's been unusually quiet, no shouting or breaking of things..."

"I'm surprised by the way Sherlock has changed," John admits. "He still can be an utter prat, mind you, but on the whole..." His voice sounds dreamy when he continues: "He's making me tea..."

Mrs Hudson beams at him: "He's completely enamoured with you, I'd say."

"He's... so lovely," John breathes, for a moment unaware that he's saying it out loud because his thoughts are still with Sherlock and the fresh memory of just this morning, when Sherlock, who'd been up early, had indeed brought John tea (and had subsequently allowed himself to be pulled back into bed for a bit).

* * *

The first time John and Sherlock go to Angelo's for dinner, which happens to be on John's birthday, Sherlock is nearly being crushed in the restaurant owner's bearhug. They haven't even closed the door behind them when Angelo descends upon them and seizes the detective, heartily embracing him for a whole half minute.

Sherlock smiles a little lopsidedly afterwards, but he doesn't interrupt Angelo's long monologue about what a dreadful business it's been and how happy he is that Sherlock's back, and that everything he'll order will of course be on the house.

"I'll bring a candle," he says once he's shown them to their table, then quickly holds up his hands in an appeasing gesture: "It's not a date, I know. Still, more romantic."

"Actually," Sherlock says, effectively stopping their host just as he is about to turn away, "it is a date."

John looks at him in surprise. They haven't talked about it further, but he assumed that Sherlock would want to keep their relationship under wraps for a bit longer.

Angelo however is delighted: "It is? Aww, Sherlock! You're making me happy, my boy!" He beams at them, then goes to get the menues and the infamous candle.

John also beams at his partner: "Really?"

Sherlock regards him warily, as if he wasn't sure he was doing the right thing; he seems a little relieved now that John didn't object.

"We're together, and I think it's understood that nothing is going to change about that," he says in a low voice. "I don't want to live in fear or hide for the rest of our lives."

"I agree," John says, and has to use all his willpower to restrain himself from kissing Sherlock senseless right there. This is so much better than the first time they've been here.

Angelo whizzes by, presenting a bottle: "Best wine, reserved for special occasions."

Sherlock slowly breaks into a smile, takes his mobile out of his pocket and turns it off, which John recognizes as the present that it is.

* * *

The recent past sometimes still haunts them, mainly in the form of nightmares on Sherlock's side. All his injuries are healed and his body has recovered, but for some reason, his Mind Palace isn't as organized as it has been before, and he still can't completely delete the darkness he's been through. Which is also why he sometimes can't control his reactions: sudden bangs for example make him flinch even when they're not that loud.

On some days Sherlock is nervous for reasons he can't explain, and it's best not to leave him alone on such occasions.

"Repercussions," John calls it when that happens. He has considered suggesting therapy, but he hesitates to actually ask Sherlock; it'd feel like taking a step backwards. He's aware that sometimes it's necessary to do so in order to be able to proceed, but still- he and Sherlock need as much normality as they can get, in the limited sense which applies to their lives, and he doesn't want anything to compromise that. So he decides to wait and see whether the crabby days are going to decrease on their own.

* * *

The end of July brings a few weeks of intense and relentless heat. John, who already has innocuously snooped around the wardrobe once in order to find out whether the great detective has any other clothes than suits, learns that Sherlock never wears shorts. He does own a few short-sleeved polo shirts which he combines with light linen trousers and a pair of posh-looking deck shoes; John thinks all Sherlock needs is a trilby hat to complete the look.

The nights are too warm to fall asleep early or cuddle; their bodies feel like furnaces.

On one particularly hot evening, they quietly lie next to each other on the bed, wearing nothing but their underwear, and just listen into the semi-darkness. London seems oddly mute, as though the heat has drained the noise out of it; people seem less inclined to sound their horns or shout, bereft of their usual energy.

At one point, John turns on the light; Sherlock, who has just dozed off, stirs: "Hm?"

"Nothing. Just can't sleep."

"Hm." Blinking slowly, Sherlock watches as his partner gets up: "Where're you going?" he murmurs; the heat has made him tired.

"I'll be right back," John promises and leaves the room. Sherlock closes his eyes; he can hear sounds from the kitchen, and when John comes back, he's carrying a a large glass of mineral water, half-filled with ice-cubes.

Sherlock props himself up on one elbow when John hands him the glass and sips; it's heavenly. Sighing, he lies back down afterwards, closing his eyes again.

"Turn over," John says, gently, and Sherlock complies. A moment later, he feels the doctor's pleasantly cool and very slightly damp hands on his shoulders and back, and sighs once more. John gently kneads Sherlock's skin, marvelling at its softness: "Good?"

"Hmmm..."

John only stops once his hands are no longer cool, and lies down next to Sherlock again. The detective turns onto his side, his fingers seeking John's cheek: "Should move to Antarctica," he mumbles, sleepily. "Miss you."

And John, despite being right there next to him, knows what Sherlock means.

* * *

Gregory Lestrade isn't as bad an observer as Sherlock makes him out to be. Even though John begins working again in August (at a day clinic, which is a rather comfortable job in his opinion), he accompanies his partner to most cases when his time allows it. And Lestrade has noticed that something has definitely changed between the two of them.

Whereas Sherlock sometimes completely ignored John before, he is now paying more attention to him, if ever so subtle; he surreptitiously glances at him from time to time as though he's got to make sure he's still there. And John, who seems aware of those glances, smiles at Sherlock every time, if sometimes only with his eyes.

Whenever Sherlock arrives on his own and John joins in later, as sometimes happens on John's workdays, the detective always takes a few seconds to lock eyes with the doctor, and some kind of nonverbal conversation seems to take place before they get on with whatever they're doing. Lestrade doubts anyone else but him has noticed it.

He is rather sure now that they've got something going on between them, and it irks him to no end that he can't simply ask them. It's good, though; they seem happy. He has never seen Sherlock so relaxed, and he's certain it's only marginally got anything to do with the absence of Sergeant Donovan or the fact that Anderson, upon hearing about Sherlock's return, has applied for a transfer as well. Lestrade is not particularly sorry about that, and he's rather content with how things have worked out.

* * *

As is Mycroft Holmes. As soon as Alistair Moran had been lucid enough to talk, he'd been questioned relentlessly. The protests of his attending doctor had been heard but not heeded; in fact, Mycroft had taken the good man for a little walk and had made it clear to him that he was very much doing the nation something good even though it may not look like it, and that there was absolutely no cause for concern whatsoever. The doctor subsequently had not dared to open his mouth again.

This rather merciless technique had gotten Mycroft's men the desired results, and Alistair Moran had been left in peace until he had been sufficiently healed to be taken to court; as Mycroft had told his brother and John, the list of countries in which the man was wanted was long, but the British government had called dibs. In any case, Alistair Moran isn't going to bother them again.

On the evening of Sherlock and John's departure, Mycroft had wandered through his house and found it strangely empty. It had never troubled him before, but the knowledge to not be entirely alone had had quite some appeal.

He ate the meal which the cook had kept warm for him and retired to bed early that day. When he turned down the comforter, he paused in surprise when he saw a piece of paper lying on his pillow.

Frowning, he picked it up; it looked worn, obviously having been crumpled up and later on smoothed out again; someone had written a few words on it, in an unsteady, untrained hand: SHERLOK, MYCROFT, GRANMA, PIGLIT, OWEL, RABBITT (which was crossed out), RABITT. A more experienced hand which he recognized as his father's had written "Sherlock, aged 4" on the bottom.

Mycroft thought he'd seen this before, some time ago. His face slowly broke into a smile as he beheld the names, of which only his own wasn't misspelled. "I don't hate you, too," he whispered.

* * *

In November, John comes home from work one night with a runny nose and rather bleary eyes.

"You look horrible," Sherlock says, and John just drops onto the sofa: "Bloody head cold's going around," he mutters, pressing the heels of his hand into his eyes for a moment, trying to relieve the headache he's had all afternoon. He should probably have left earlier, but there was so much to do, and he's still relatively new; he doesn't want to appear like someone who shirks his duties at the slightest possibility. So he just took two Ibuprofen, neither of which seems to work at all, and soldiered on.

He leans back with his eyes still closed, feeling slightly dizzy and ever so tired. The sofa dips as Sherlock sits down next to him, and then two gentle hands carefully pull his own away from his eyes: "Why don't you lie down," Sherlock's voice is quiet, and John allows his partner to manoeuvre him into a horizontal position with two thick pillows under his head. Sherlock spreads a blanket over him: "I'll make you some tea and something to eat."

"'m not hungry," John murmurs, but Sherlock ignores him and brings him two pieces of buttered toast. John takes two bites to show him that the gesture is appreciated, but he can't swallow more than that, as his throat is hurting as well. The tea feels good, though, and he sips all of it.

Sherlock takes the mug out of his slightly trembling hand afterwards: "Maybe you should rather go to bed," he suggests, and John sighs, leaning sideways against the other's shoulder and closing his eyes: "Since when are you the responsible half?"

Sherlock puts the mug down and winds his arms around John, holding him tight: "I've always been responsible," he says against John's temple, "you just never noticed."

"Huh. I could have sworn it was the other way round."

"No, I did notice that you were responsible too. I just tried to ignore you."

John gives a tired chuckle: "You're so cute," he mutters into Sherlock's shirt. "My dearest..."

"Come on," Sherlock gently pulls him onto his feet, walking him to the bedroom.

While Sherlock disappears in the kitchen, John undresses with clumsy and uncoordinated movements and momentarily gets stuck in the long-sleeved pyjama shirt he pulls over his head, but eventually manages and crawls under the covers, shivering. Lying down properly feels suprisingly good, and Sherlock soon comes back with a hot water bottle which he puts under John's cold feet (and he only realizes how just how cold they are), a fresh packet of tissues, a thermometer and a glass of water.

"Stay with me?" John murmurs, "You're warm."

So Sherlock, who is already wearing his pyjamas and dressing-gown, slides under the covers as well, gathering John in his arms just as he did before and pulling the blanket up around them. The doctor snuggles into his partner, and the shivering eventually abates. John sneezes violently a few times, but he quickly settles down again, drowsily listening to Sherlock's heartbeat. His temperature is at 38.4°C, which is only a light-grade fever.

"Let's not ever move to Antarctica," he mutters, "'s too bloody cold. This is nice, though."

Sherlock presses a kiss on his temple: "Okay. No moving necessary. Besides, I don't think Mrs Hudson'd come along." This elicits a chuckle from John.

"Would you like me to start settling my debts now?" the detective then asks in a low voice.

"Hm?" The doctor sounds confused.

"In reading terms," Sherlock clarifies.

"Oh. Yes, that'd be great."

Sherlock reaches for "Smilla", which is lying on the nightstand. They have come quite far, the book is nearly finished.

"Certain types of sleep are worse than no sleep at all. After the last two hours I wake up more tense, more physically depleted than if I had kept myself awake."

Sherlock can relate to this, and apparently so can John, because he hums agreeingly despite his semi-conscious state.

"Go on," he then mutters, muffled by Sherlock's shirt, "if you stop I'll doze off."

"That's the whole point," Sherlock gently reminds him.

"No, I want to hear what happens."

"You'll hear it later."

"I want to hear it now. Love your voice."

Sherlock smiles, pressing a kiss into John's hair: "Okay."

He reads on, but it doesn't take long until John indeed falls asleep. Sherlock puts the book down and closes his eyes as well, listening to John's soft snores, contemplating the fact that has been called a "half" and quite likes it. It's a good thing to be John's half, he thinks contentedly, gently reinforcing his grip around the other. He soon nods off as well.

* * *

Later that night, Sherlock wakes up because of some commotion; when he turns on the light, he finds John fumbling around on his nightstand, very obviously not really awake.

"Need to find it," he mutters.

"Not now," Sherlock says calmly, guiding John back down onto the mattress gently but firmly. "You just need to sleep now."

"Contagious," John mumbles, eyes already drooping, "Don't want him to... what's the word..." he's gone under again before he can finish the sentence.

His skin is warmer than before and quite sweaty; Sherlock however doesn't care if John's contagious. He cautiously puts his arm around the doctor's midriff and holds him tight.

A little later, John bolts out of sleep once more, startling Sherlock rather badly: "Sherlock!" He struggles against his partner's hold, unaware that he's doing so.

"John," Sherlock says, quietly, gently but determinedly holding on to him. John's trembling and quivers in his arms.

"Sherlock," he grounds out, choked, "Sherlock..."

"I'm here," Sherlock reassures him, murmuring into his ear. "I've got you."

He is relieved when John finally lies still again and his breathing evens out.

 _Repercussions_ , Sherlock thinks, and is once more struck by how thoroughly James bloody Moriarty has messed with their lives.

* * *

Sherlock does his best to help John; he researches a recipe for soup on the internet and buys all the ingredients for it, then gets Mrs Hudson to cook it for John. He buys fruit and juice and over-the-counter medication since John insists he doesn't need to see a doctor: "I _am_ one, for heaven's sake," he says testily, "if I wanted to see a doctor, I'd only need to look in the bloody mirror!"

So Sherlock reads to John and plays his violin for him and provides him with tea and food and vapo rub, even changes the bedding a few times.

"I didn't know you could be so caring," John murmurs one evening when Sherlock brings him a fresh hot water bottle for his cold feet.

When his partner's face unexpectedly falls at this, if only for a seconds until Sherlock's got himself back under control, John regrets having said anything.

"Sorry," he murmurs, stretching out his hand towards the other man. Sherlock hesitates, but in the end allows John to pull him onto the bed.

"You know I didn't mean..." John does not under any circumstances want to use the word 'machine' again when it comes to Sherlock.

"It's okay," Sherlock says softly, but he doesn't look at John. Who, because he doesn't know what else to do, simply tightens his hold on Sherlock's hand: "Sherlock, I'm sorry. It was meant as a jest."

"It's okay," Sherlock repeats, but he pulls his hand away and turns to the door: "Call me if you need anything."

Unhappily, John stares after him. Another kind of repercussion, he realizes. Always good for a surprise.

* * *

Very late that night, Sherlock crawls into bed with John, who is still wide awake despite his illness and the exhaustion stemming from it. He is tentatively relieved when Sherlock cautiously wraps his arms around him and holds him close; in fact, it feels like he's holding on to John as though holding on to dear life. The detective is breathing rapidly and his heart beats a frantic rhythm in his chest.

John somewhat laboriously turns around in Sherlock's embrace and winds his own arms around him in a tight grip: "You said it," he whispers, "I'm an idiot."

Sherlock gives a slightly choked gasp: "No, you're not." He's whispering as well. "You're not."

"I am," John insists, and his eyes are suddenly tingling because he hates the notion that he has hurt Sherlock. "You've always been caring about me."

"I hid it."

"It doesn't matter."

"It did to you."

"What I have now matters more," John breathes. All of a sudden he is painfully aware that he needs to stop comparing Sherlock to how he was before, because if he doesn't, some of the ghosts from their past are probably never going to stop haunting them.

"This _us_ ," he murmurs, closing his burning eyes for a moment,"it's a good thing."

Sherlock shivers, but his breathing and his heart are slowing down.

"You've always been good," he replies, barely audible.

"No," John replies, "I haven't. It's what you wanted to see."

"Maybe. But you care about others, not only about the people you love. You generally care. How do you do that?"

"It just happens."

"One can't learn how to do it?"

"No. But you, Sherlock," he manages a small smile, despite the way his inflamed sinuses are making his face hurt, "you don't have to learn it. This heart of yours is larger than you think. It's not only me in there, and I don't think it's ever been entirely empty."

Sherlock huffs, but doesn't protest; John is wise sometimes, and he's well versed in these things. The detective very much wants to believe what his partner's just told him, so he keeps quiet. He feels a lot calmer now.

"I'm sorry I hurt you," John murmurs, on the brink of dozing off.

Sherlock only reinforces his grip around him: "Never mind," he whispers against John's temple. "Apparently, we're all idiots sometimes."

With a chuckle, John falls asleep.

 

**To Be Continued**

 

 

 

 

 


	20. Love Is All Around

**Disclaimer** : Sadly, I do not own Sherlock Holmes or any recognizable character and am not making any profit by using them.

Thank you all very much for your reading.

Enjoy!

 

**Hazard Control  
**

 

Part 20: Love Is All Around

 

 

Molly Hooper is easily intimidated, shy and not very good with words.

People who've known her all her life would very likely protest about that, including herself. Molly Hooper has only ever been easily intimidated, shy and not very good with words when it concerned Sherlock Holmes. She admittedly has a horrible dress sense, but she's a very pleasant person altogether, of the kind who takes all sorts of injured animals home to care for them, hoping to nurse them back to health, and who anonymously donates a certain sum of money to the RSPCA each Christmas.

She's also trustworthy, something which Sherlock has realized early on. It doesn't take a consulting detective to notice that trait in her, however; on the contrary, the people around her sometimes tend to underestimate Molly because she exudes such an air of niceness. She isn't as naive as some are making her out to be however, which is why she didn't hesitate to help Sherlock after he had explained what exactly he needed her to do when he was about to fake his death.

It figures, she tells herself; after all, she is someone who doesn't have any qualms to cut open a dead body and rummage around in it. It also figures that Sherlock, after he disappeared, did not contact her once.

She had been surprised to hear from Detective Inspector Lestrade, however, when he called her a few weeks after the funeral; her heart had sped up considerably, and for a moment she forgot to breathe entirely, convinced that he was suspecting something. The relief which followed upon realizing that she was wrong about that had made her knees feel like jelly. Lestrade didn't seem to have the faintest idea that she had been in on the whole affair- of course he didn't suspect something like that, she thought bitterly, as he had witnessed more than once how Sherlock had treated her. Lestrade only wanted to know how she was doing, and their conversation was a little awkward because Molly didn't really know what to say, afraid she might give something away; when they hung up, she was thoroughly confused.

A few weeks later, he had called again, and they had agreed to meet for a coffee. He had just split up with his wife, this time final, it seemed , and needed someone to talk to.

They met a second time, and a third, and Molly found that she quite liked his company, especially when the topic of their conversations began to change from Lestrade's divorce over to other things.

She didn't dare to encourage him at first, but one night, she sat on the sofa in her flat and decided to be honest with herself. She was thoroughly fed up with being alone, and Sherlock Holmes, if he ever came back, was not going to suddenly take a romantic interest in her. As ever, he had manipulated her into helping him, and she was painfully aware that he only did so because there had been no one else he could have turned to (a thought she had not allowed herself before). She was not going to wait for him, especially not when finally someone decent seemed to be attracted to her.

At least that's what she hoped it was, attraction. It certainly felt that way, and why ever not? She wasn't looking too bad, and Greg and she had laughed quite a lot together, his eyes lighting up every time, which was a nice change from looking sad. She knew that the reason for that was not only the pending divorce, and it broke her heart that she couldn't tell him the truth about Sherlock. Lestrade was investigating the case- he never said the name, but it was clear whose case he meant- and hardly took any breaks. Molly was glad that he seemed to be able to relax in her company, and she wanted to be in his much more often.

After contemplating the situation for a while longer, Molly had gotten up from the sofa, smiled at herself in the mirror reassuringly and dialled Lestrade's number.

Since then, they had slowly but steadily gotten closer, and at one point had considered themselves to be an item.

Molly subconsciously sighs when she thinks of Greg because he is wonderful- he is attentive, funny, insanely attractive and altogether a real gentleman, and she misses him during the day.

Greg, being the honest soul that he is (not unlike her), had told her about John's visit and the subsequent discovery that Sherlock hadn't been dead. She had acted surprised and had inwardly steeled herself.

Nevertheless, Sherlock's call catches her off guard. She is simultaneously happy for him about the good news and annoyed by the nervous fluttering of her own heart at hearing his voice, which quickly abates after they've hung up. She just hasn't been prepared is all.

Still, when the comprehension sets in that Sherlock is indeed coming back and will most likely be sweeping in and out of her morgue again rather frequently, she needs to sit down for a moment.

* * *

Predictably, Sherlock gets a cold as well. It annoys him to no end, he rarely got sick in all the years before. But now that his immune system isn't up to its usual shape, he should have known. At first, he tries to hide it; John, after having been in bed for five days, is lying on the sofa watching the telly, too tired to do anything else.

When Sherlock sneezes violently for the umpteenth time that morning however, John eyes him attentively: "Your eyes are glassy," he observes, "are you okay?"

"Fine." Sherlock promptly sneezes again. John slowly gets to his feet and totters over to the desk, at which Sherlock is sitting and typing something; he's recently been updating his website again, much to the delight of his fans.

John gently pulls Sherlock's head against his belly and checks his temples with the back of his fingers. It is unnecessary, since he can already feel Sherlock's overly warm skin through his shirt: "I don't think so," he murmurs, and immediately feels guilty.

"I'm fine!" Sherlock insists, jerking away, and John, aware how stubborn his partner can be, decides not to force the issue and returns to the sofa without arguing.

Sure enough, Sherlock's condition deteriorates rapidly in the following hours, he even ignores a call from Lestrade.

Around five in the afternoon, a sheepish consulting detective finds himself stretched out on the sofa with his live-in doctor, groggily listening to a brief but stern lecture on his health. Sherlock is too tired to protest; he feels like is going to fall asleep soon. John strokes his hair, which is soothing and feels incredibly good.

"Go to bed," John murmurs into Sherlock's ear just as he is about to doze off.

"No."

"Yes. Come on." Gently, John manages to push Sherlock into a remotely upright position: "You need to sleep."

"I can sleep here."

"I meant in a proper bed, with a proper blanket and exchangeable linens."

"What are you insinuating?"

"I'm not insinuating anything. You obviously have a fever, as established a few hours ago, and you need to sweat it out."

"Dull."

"Don't be childish. Apart from that, I'd really like to watch TV."

Now that his head isn't feeling like it's entirely wrapped in cotton any longer, John is keen on some mindless entertainment to take his mind off the rest of his ailments.

He knows that either Sherlock'd interfere with that or the TV'd interfere with Sherlock's rest, both on John's expense, which is another reason to send Sherlock to bed- apart from the obvious. So the doctor gently but firmly coaxes the unwilling detective into getting up, all but hoisting him off the sofa.

Sherlock, shivering and feeling too miserable altogether to stay upright for long, gives in under protest, mumbling something about banishment and John being selfish, but allows himself to be steered towards the bedroom nevertheless.

John, who really isn't feeling too well yet, tucks his partner in and sits down on the comforter, leaning over Sherlock for a moment, a solid, reassuring weight against his hip: "I am not banishing you," he says patiently, "but you'll not do yourself a favour if you stay up. And yes, lying on the sofa does count as being up in this case."

Sherlock huffs, but his eyelids are already drooping.

"I love you," John murmurs, stroking Sherlock's cheek. "Want me to stay with you until you're asleep?"

"No, it's okay," Sherlock's voice is low, but he sounds like he means it. "Love you too."

When John goes to check on him half an hour later, he's already fast asleep.

* * *

During the next few days, Mrs Hudson rather suddenly has her hands full with two patients. She nearly has to tie down John so he doesn't get up all the time because he thinks he needs to look after Sherlock, who now has a full-blown cold.

"I was just done with being ill," Sherlock complains to the world in general and his landlady in particular when she looks in on him one morning, but she just shrugs sympathetically: "Snivelling won't make it better, you know?" she says, managing to keep a remarkably straight face. Sherlock huffs, burying deeper into the covers.

Mrs Hudson ignores his fretfulness and feels his forehead, which is still too warm. "I'll bring you some breakfast," she says, "then you can take some Ibuprofen."

"Doesn't help," Sherlock mutters, closing his eyes again.

"Oh, you're just grumpy," Mrs Hudson replies, tutting, as she leaves the room.

Sherlock rolls his eyes and instantly winces because even the small motion is painful. He is mainly displeased with the fact that he has to lie in bed whereas John is occupying the sofa; he'd never admit that he actually feels way too rotten to do anything else, and is mostly sleeping or dozing anyway.

 

As soon as he is feeling a little better, Sherlock is in a rather morose mood, which is a safe indicator that he's improving.

John is still feeling guilty, convinced that it's been him who has infected his partner. The only consolation he allows himself is the fact that this time, Sherlock at least wasn't half dead when he fell ill, and that it really is nothing but a common headcold which is ailing him.

* * *

Those days pass, however, and by the time both men are back on their feet, December's rolled around. It's getting startingly cold very quickly with temperatures well below freezing point. The first time John and Sherlock want to leave the house, they are stopped by their small but very determined landlady: "Oh no. You can't go out like that," she says sternly, looking them over, "you'll both relapse and subsequently have me in an asylum by Christmas. Come with me, will you?"

The doctor and the detective exchange a look.

"We're just going for a walk in Re-"

"You're not going anywhere if you're not properly dressed."

"Yes, Mum," Sherlock says sarcastically, but follows her and John into her flat nevertheless.

Mrs Hudson disappears in her bedroom and comes back with two tote bags: "Consider them early Christmas gifts," she says, all but thrusting them into their hands.

"This is silly. I _am_ properly dressed," Sherlock mumbles. He has even attached the fur to his coat's collar.

"The wind is fierce today and you, young man, have just had a severe cold."

He lifts the bag a little: "I know what this is."

"Well, try it on then!"

John ignores their bickering and pulls a scarf out of the bag. It's chequered in various reds and blues and very soft, probably made of cashmere.

"I love it. Thank you, Mrs H.," he says, hugging her. "You didn't have to-"

"I know." She's trying to hide her delight at having chosen the right thing. "You can't go out without a scarf, though. I'd have knitted one myself, but I've never been good at that..." She trails off, looking at Sherlock over John's shoulder.

He's just put on the dark fedora Mrs Hudson has bought for him, instantly resembling someone who's traveled in time. It's a tremendous difference to the infamous deerstalker- he looks elegant, distinguished. As though the hat's been made just for him.

"Gorgeous," John murmurs, probably not aware he's saying it out loud this time.

Sherlock blushes a little, but chooses to pretend he didn't. Instead, he bends down and kisses Mrs Hudson on her cheek: "Thank you."

"You're welcome, dear," she beams, "do you like it?"

"It does seem to suit me and it is appropriate for this kind of weather."

John and the old lady share a knowing, long-suffering look.

* * *

There are only a few people in the park; the pond's partially frozen over, and the ducks watch them attentively, hoping for some breadcrumbs.

John is actually glad about the scarf; he hasn't worn one in a long time, but he can't remember the air ever feeling so cold either. He smiles about Mrs Hudson's thoughtfulness; he himself should have remembered to make Sherlock wear something on the head in this weather, but somehow, it slipped his mind. Probably because the detective doesn't look as frail anymore as he did in spring. Apart from that, Mrs Hudson does have a maternal streak in her; she apparently even remembered that John never wears hats at all if he can help it, since he finds them suffocating.

Sherlock however seems comfortable with the hat, and John catches himself fantasizing about it. It's probably a good thing Sherlock can't read his mind because the doctor isn't sure how his partner'd react to being the subject of such fantasies.

Sherlock appears to be caught in his own thoughts: "Would it be appropriate if I held your hand?" he asks, a frown on his forehead.

"For me it would," John replies after a moment of startled comprehension. "Some people might want to see us burn in hell for that, but I think we can take the risk."

One corner of Sherlock's mouth twitches as he slowly reaches out and takes John's hand in his. "I meant for you," he says, "I don't care about conventional social conduct when it comes to personal matters."

A pleasant shiver runs down the doctor's spine. It feels good- unfamiliar, but entailing a faint ring of a memory, of holding on to another, much bigger hand in order not to get lost in a crowd, thus conveying a feeling of safety. There's something else this time, however: the overwhelming awareness that this is a visual expression of their partnership in addition to Sherlock apparently wanting to be close to him, right here, right now.

With a sudden, acute clarity John realizes that he doesn't actually _need_ such public demonstrations of affection from Sherlock, that their bond is so strong he can feel it at all times; it consists of their love, of their mutual knowledge of each other, of the desire to be together no matter what. During the past months, John has seen countless new sides of Sherlock, all of which have been added to his mental picture of him. Which has become much more three-dimensional in the meantime, further enhanced by all of his senses and their respective memories.

Tiny pieces of Sherlock which have lodged themselves in his heart are always with him; in the privacy of his mind, he can recall them at his leisure. Sherlock's warm skin pressing against his; the smile which some people have never even seen, but which is so genuine and warm in John's presence; the shuddering breath Sherlock wasn't even aware he released when John nibbled on his earlobe the other night. The way Sherlock feels when they are cuddling on the sofa together, forgetting all about time and the outside world, just the two of them. Sherlock's mind is no longer the rocket on the launchpad, ready to tear itself apart because it's trapped; he is slightly more patient now, more content and even-balanced.

John can feel his happiness like a cloak, a soft, feathery and yet solid and reassuring presence around him. No, he thinks, he definitely doesn't need public displays of affection.

And yet, he feels special with Sherlock's hand around his, and all of a sudden the cold is less biting. It's a good day. John grins: especially so with the addition of the fedora.

* * *

In a spur-of-the-moment decision, John buys a few candles; he is in a festive mood, and he finds that he is enjoying the Christmas season. Mrs Hudson has already put up some decorations and a vase with fir and holly on the coffee table.

There's also, for reasons the landlady keeps her quiet about, a mistletoe in the hall. John suspects that Mrs Hudson has actually had to climb onto a stepladder to hang it up, and can't but admire her cheek. Sherlock however is obviously unaware of the meaning of it, something John is determined to change in the foreseeable future, if preferably without their landlady watching.

In the week before Christmas, John gets a call from Harry.

"Oh boy," he mutters after they've hung up. "Oh boy."

"A 'little get-together'?" Sherlock asks with knitted brows.

"Yes. Apparently, they are going to spend Christmas somewhere where you can surf all day and do the Hula, to celebrate their... reinstated happiness. They are in London for a few days for shopping and want to see us."

Sherlock's frown deepens: "Why?"

"Err- because it's Christmas."

"Technically, it's not for another week. It'd make more sense to meet in the New Year, once they're back from... Hula-ing."

John sighs: "I know. I'd still very much appreciate it if you came with me."

As John looks at him expectantly, Sherlock feels all of his resistance melting away. Darn. Why can't he just distance himself from all those emotional complications, just as he did before? It seems he wants John to be happy, which includes things like contending with his obnoxious sister.

Before he can have any second thoughts, Sherlock hears himself agree:"If you insist."

"I do." John steps closer, a smile in his eyes as he gently takes hold of Sherlock's lapels: "It'd only be half the fun without you."

"Hm." The frown is still there, but Sherlock can't hide a smile as John beams at him now.

"I mean it," the doctor says, standing on his toes in order to kiss Sherlock, a gentle nuzzle against his lips, "and I'm willing to prove to you just how much, right here and now."

A shiver runs down Sherlock's spine. John's smile deepens as he kisses him again, more demanding this time. His hand wanders from Sherlock's lapel to the opening of his shirt and further, slipping under the soft material and over his partner's collarbone. His touch is sending sparks through Sherlock's body, and he can feel how something in his belly reacts, wanting more. John's other hand is cupping Sherlock's cheek, holding him in place while they are kissing.

"Right here?" the detective manages to get out in between, "What if Mrs Hudson-"

"'kay," John concedes, not stopping once, "bedroom."

Without letting go of each other and only once bumping into a wall, they manage to relocate.

"I want to undress you," John says huskily, still not stopping the kissing.

"Please," Sherlock's already got weak knees. He has no idea that John is seriously considering getting the fedora, but then dismisses the thought. Maybe later, one day; there's no need to hurry.

John's hands are slow and warm and gentle. Sherlock could never give himself over into anyone else's care like that, but he trusts John, and he loves him. So he allows him to remove his jacket and trousers, his shirt and underwear. He allows him to guide him down onto the bed and lie down on him, still fully clothed while Sherlock is completely naked. John just looks at him for a few seconds, smiling, before he kisses him again: "I love you," he murmurs, "just so you know."

 _I know_ , Sherlock thinks as John kisses his cheek, his ear, his throat, and slowly moves further over his body, _I know_.

* * *

Harry and Clara are already there when John and Sherlock enter the restaurant, a small, rather cosy Tapas bar.

"Bro," Harry exclaims, rising to her feet, "it's so good to see you!"

John doesn't dare to look at Sherlock, but his partner has promised to behave. He shakes Clara's hand and then Harry's, aware that both of them are more or less inspecting him. He knows that he's still too thin, but apart from that, he looks like his old self. His hair has finally grown back to a length he's comfortable with, and the scar on his temple is beginning to fade.

Harry is looking well, John is pleased to see, and it seems she's indeed managed to stay off the booze.

As usual, she quickly cuts to the chase: "So, Sherlock. Glad to hear everything's turned out all right."

"Thank you," he says.

"I guess I should say something along the lines of 'if you ever hurt my brother I'll kill you' or something like that now, but I won't." She grins. "I'm sure you already know."

"Yes," Sherlock replies, scanning the menu,"I do. It seems to be standard procedure with siblings, my brother has already treated John to a similar threat. Only in his case, he'd indeed have the means to have John killed. No questions asked." He smiles, and John groans inwardly as he sees the slightly bewildered look which Harry and Clara are sharing.

"What does he do then, your brother?" Clara asks.

"He's the British Government," Sherlock says lightly, eyes back on the menu, sounding a tad bored. "Very busy, too."

"I really can't decide what to take," John says, "it all sounds good."

"Yeah," Harry agrees, eyes darting from Sherlock to the menu and back, "fantastic."

* * *

John gives a sigh of relief once they are back in Baker Street, leaning against the wall in the hallway for a moment.

"That went well, don't you think?" Sherlock says, evidently pleased with himself (partially because John didn't look twice at Clara, who really is rather beautiful; he can see why John once felt attracted to her).

"Depends on what you call 'well'," John replies, running his hand through his hair.

"I think Harry and Clara enjoyed themselves."

"Yeah. Not all the time, though. Clara clearly turned green when you told her about the first victim you ever examined in such gruesome detail."

"She asked about my job. I was just being polite."

"You did it on purpose."

"Did not."

"Did too."

"Did not and what's more, Harry was really interested in the whole story. She even had questions about that case."

"Yes, which will probably lead to a fight between them later on."

"Not our problem."

"You're impossible." John smiles while he says that. "It was nice to go out together, though. I really like having you around, Sherlock Holmes."

Sherlock blushes: "How much wine did you drink?" But he is very pleased to hear it nevertheless.

John sighs and points at the mistletoe: "See that?"

"Yes. Mrs Hudson's indulging herself in heaven knows which traditions."

"So you know what it stands for?"

"Christmas, obviously."

John chuckles, pushing himself away from the wall and coming to stand under the mistletoe: "Come here, silly."

Sherlock shakes his head: "I'm not going to sing something."

"You don't have to."

"I'm not going to recite poems either."

"You don't have to. Come here. Trust me."

Hesitantly, Sherlock joins John where he is standing.

"This is what you do if you happen to meet under a mistletoe," John says, gently pulling Sherlock close.

"Oh," Sherlock says, two minutes later. "I see." He ponders the matter for a moment, his gaze straying towards Mrs Hudson's door: "She really could be working for the secret service, considering how sneaky she is."

* * *

A few days later, when they are cuddling on the sofa in their usual position, Sherlock seems pensive. He doesn't comment on the show they're watching, and stares ahead unseeingly most of the time.

"All right, what's bugging you?" John asks after a while, gently carding his fingers through Sherlock's curls.

"Nothing."

"Sherlock."

"I was just wondering- do you think they are right, Harry and Clara, in marrying again?"

"Are you doubting it will hold?"

"No, I don't. I was merely considering their reasons."

It takes John a moment to put two and two together. Harry and Clara had announced their wedding plans during dinner that evening, happily and full of glee.

"Look at my brother," Harry had said to Clara in a kind of loud whisper, "he's not exactly thrilled."

In fact, John had needed a moment to digest the news.

"I am," he protested, "it's just- wow. Are you sure you want to do this? It seems rather quick."

"Yes, it is, considering," Clara answered. "But we are sure. And it's not only for romantic reasons, you know," she glanced at Harry, involuntarily smiling very briefly before turning serious again: "When Harry was in hospital, I only had access to her because a few of the nurses remembered us. They didn't know about the divorce, and I used a few little white lies about that. Otherwise they wouldn't have told me a thing because I'm not family."

"I know," John nodded, "patient confidentiality is handled very strictly. You're lucky you got away with it like that." He felt slightly guilty again, for not having been there, and either not having given it any thoughts.

And now his hand in Sherlock's hair pauses: "What do you mean?"

"I think they do have a point, considering rights."

John's heart skips a beat. "Yes," he agrees, slowly, "they do."

Humming, Sherlock pushes himself up on his arms and comes closer, expecting John to wrap his arms around him, which he does. The doctor can feel Sherlock's steady heartbeat and buries his nose in the nape of his neck, inhaling his scent; this is home, he thinks, and he is grateful for what he's got. There are still times when he's suddenly and irrationally scared that all this has only been a dream, fearing he'll wake up in his dreadful bedsit, alone and bereft of his partner.

"Maybe we should think about a registered partnership," Sherlock mumbles into John's jumper.

The doctor's heart seems to skip another beat, and he can hear the blood rushing in his ears: "Are... are you serious?"

"It makes sense, doesn't it?" Sherlock pulls back a little in order to look at John. Who is a little speechless just now, while the butterflies in his stomach are doing a happy little dance.

"It's just a formality," Sherlock adds, but John shakes his head at that: "It's much more than that, Sherlock." He clears his throat: "It'd for example mean that we could call each other 'husband'."

"Oh. Right." Sherlock frowns, but that doesn't last long. "At least that's something one can actually use," he states.

"Use for what?"

"For introducing the other, obviously." Sherlock looks smug. "It's way better than 'boyfriend'."

"You really _are_ serious about it," John mutters, thunderstruck.

Sherlock regards him with his do-keep-up expression, but then he grins: "Let's do it before Christmas. Then you can call Mycroft brother-in-law at dinner."

"You're mean, and I'm sure he'd find out before that anyway." John shakes himself: "Which is so not the point right now. Sherlock- did you just propose to me?"

"No," the detective says, irritably, "I didn't. I suggested considering a civil partnership."

"Good. That's good." John seems confused. Sherlock regards him and can't but smile.

"And?"

"It... does seem reasonable."

"So... should we do it? Or do you need more time to think about it?"

"I..." John is so overwhelmed that he finds it difficult to think clearly. One year ago, he'd have laughed out loud if someone had called him gay, and now he's going to marry another man. What are his friends going to say, he wonders. And is marriage, no matter of which kind, something he wants at all? But these thoughts quickly vaporize as he looks at Sherlock. He couldn't love anyone more, and he is certain that he wants to spend the rest of his life with him. And hell, yes, he wants to marry him.

"I don't need more time," he says, sounding confident now. "We should do it."

"I thought so. Wait here." Sherlock gets up and disappears in the bedroom. John can hear him rummaging around for a while, his heart still pounding in his chest at this unexpected turn of events.

When Sherlock reappears, he picks up his violin and begins to play a beautiful little melody; he doesn't think he's heard it before.

"It's a nocturne," Sherlock says once he's finished, "it's for you."

"For me? Did you compose it?"

"Yes, while you were at work. It's... what I hear in my mind when I think of you. It was going to be your Christmas present, but now..." A smile flitters across his face.

"You're incredible."

"No," Sherlock puts the violin down, "you are." A look of mischief settles on his features as he continues: "And now, if you don't object, I am going to propose to you."

John swallows, feeling his throat go dry: "Er- no, please, by all means, go ahead."

Sherlock turns serious again:"John Hamish Watson," he says slowly, "will you marry me?"

John doesn't know whether he should laugh or cry. He reaches out and pulls Sherlock close, so that they come to stand in front of each other. Sherlock is perfectly earnest, a gentleman if John ever saw one, even with a slightly rumpled shirt.

"If you will do me the honour," John whispers because all of a sudden, he doesn't trust his voice anymore. "Then I'd be happy to."

The blood is still rushing in his ears,and he'd be glad to have someone pinching him, because all this seems unreal. But Sherlock is there, smiling, looking happy as well and still a little smug, and now he takes John's hand and puts some rolled up paper into it which is held together by a red ribbon: "I don't have a ring. And coming to think of it, I'm not sure I'd want one. But I'd like to give you this."

It's the notes of the nocturne, jotted down in Sherlock's untidy scrawl.

"It's unfinished," Sherlock says, "it will always be. I won't stop thinking of you."

John shivers at these words; if love were something palpable, he'd probably be engulfed by a solid wall by now.

"Thank you," he whispers, once more, because he definitely can't trust his voice right now. "Why is it a nocturne?"

"Because you're most real to me in the quiet of the night," Sherlock says simply.

John looks up from the paper, reaching out to his partner with one hand and cupping his cheek. They just behold each other for a moment, aware that once again, something life-changing has happened, before they close the short distance between them for a kiss.

"Do we have any champagne left?" John asks after they have come up for some air.

"I don't know. Why?"

"We should celebrate this, don't you think?"

"It's mainly a legal-"

"Shut up." John playfully punches him on the arm. "Let's see if we got some champagne and then we'll tell Mrs Hudson."

"She'll think _she_ did it.

"Mistletoe magic?"

"Mistletoe magic."

 

 

 

**To Be Continued**

 

Thank you for reading, please leave some feedback!

 

Yes, I know- I said one more part. Now however it seems that there's going to be a Christmas Special,

since they are currently in demand I hear, and this story is just not letting go of me. Ta!

 

 

 


	21. Christmas Is All Around

  


**Hazard Control  
**

 

Part 21: Christmas Is All Around

 

 

Mrs Hudson has just begun to heat a pot of milk on her stove when there are a few knocks on her door.

She looks at the clock: it's after nine already. Usually, the boys are very considerate about her early bedtime (well, John is- Sherlock plays the violin whenever he fancies it, nothing new there), so it must be an emergency. Rather reluctantly, the old lady turns off the stove and goes to answer the door, pulling her dressing gown tighter around her.

She is greeted by the sight of her two tenants, both of whom are in their dressing gowns as well; John is grinning all but giddily whereas Sherlock looks vaguely amused.

"Boys? What happened?" Only now Mrs Hudson notices the bottle of champagne in John's hand.

"We've got something to celebrate," John says, unable to stop beaming at her.

"All right," Mrs Hudson is a little suspicious at that, but curiosity gets the better of her: "Come in."

She leads them into her kitchen and takes three glasses out of the cupboard.

"Maybe you should sit down," John muses while Sherlock opens the bottle, regarding Mrs Hudson thoughtfully.

"It's not bad news, of course," he quickly adds when she pales a little.

"She doesn't need to sit down, John," Sherlock says quietly. "Hand me your glasses."

"I'm not made of porcelain," Mrs Hudson assents, "thank you, dear. Now, what is it? I didn't forget a birthday, did I?"

"No, you didn't." John smiles mischievously. When Sherlock stands next to him, they share a brief look, and the detective inclines his head ever so slightly, indicating for John to go ahead.

He takes a deep breath and raises his glass: "Sherlock and I are going to get a civil partnership."

Mrs Hudson looks from him to Sherlock and back, momentarily speechless. "What- you mean you're getting _married_?"

"It's not _exactly_ the same-" Sherlock begins.

"He did propose to me, though," John chimes in, evidently proud of the fact.

"Oh Sherlock, you did? That's... I'm so happy for you two!" Mrs Hudson quickly puts her glass on the table and pulls them both into a hug, beaming. "Congratulations, my dears!"

She can't wait to tell Mrs Turner.

* * *

That night, John tosses and turns. He tries to keep it to a minimum in order not to disturb Sherlock, but he can't find a position he's comfortable in, and he is too agitated to settle down. He is torn between a ridiculous amount of delight and the fear that he's been too rash. It's just like Sherlock, springing such an idea at him out of the blue.

John takes a deep breath (and he feels like he's been doing that a lot in the past few hours) and forces himself to lie quietly, listening to Sherlock's breathing. Of course he shouldn't for a second be doubting his decision, considering everything. He's happy, happier than he'd possibly have imagined. Granted, this particular kind of happiness is not at all how he'd expected it to look like, but he'd not exchange it for anything in the world. What more reasons could he want?

 

An hour later, he is still wide awake. He turns and looks at the red digits of the alarm clock; it's 2:44. After a moment's hesitation, he gets up.

In the living room, he digs his mobile out of his coat pocket, unsure whether he should do this or not. To hell with it, he then decides, he's had countless times of interrupted sleep because of his sister, now it's his turn. He needs to talk about the matter, and right now, he doesn't have a better choice than Harry.

She answers after half a minute, sounding drowsy but slightly alarmed nevertheless: "John? You okay?"

John, who still doesn't know if this is such a good idea, sits down on the sofa: "Yeah, I- yeah. Sorry to wake you."

"What's up, what happened?" Harry seems slightly more alert now.

"Well, something came up, and it's quite a big deal." John feels his heartrate increasing once again: "Sherlock and I decided to get married."

"Congratulations," Harry replies, a little hesitantly. "Though I've got to admit that that's the least I expected."

"I know. It was kind of inspired by you, actually. You know, rights and all."

"Ain't you two romantic."

"It's not like that."

"I know. Just teasing."

"Hm."

"So?"

"So what?"

"So, what are your qualms about it?"

"Why do you think I have qualms?"

"Because you called me in the middle of the night to tell me. Something's bothering you."

John pinches the bridge of his nose: "Well... I'm happy, and I love him. I think it's a good idea to get a civil partnership, I hardly need explain it to you. But... " He pauses. It'd sound silly if he said it out loud.

"You're a guy and he's a guy?" Harry suggests. "You probably won't have kids with him? You're afraid to lose him again?"

"Yes," John concedes after clearing his throat. "That may be it. Or not. I'm not sure, Harry. I shouldn't be having these doubts at all, it's not fair towards Sherlock."

"It's completely normal," Harry says, wisely, "especially if you're someone who likes to think things through first."

"I'm not like that."

"Yes, you are."

"Sometimes, maybe."

"John- I don't know what you expect to hear from me. I certainly won't talk you out of this, but I won't try to encourage you either. It's your decision, I can only tell you that from my point of view, being married is freaking awesome. As long as everything's good, that is. You know how awful it can be if that's not the case. You shouldn't make that kind of commitment if you're not a hundred percent sure it's what you want."

"I know." John vividly remembers the fights between Harry and Clara he witnessed. "I'm aware that it can complicate things a good deal. And what you said- I never gave it that much thought. I mean, I think I saw me being married and maybe being a father at one point, but it was nothing fixed, no great plan including a house and all that. I just assumed I'd one day arrive somewhere."

"And there you have your answer," Harry states. "Do you feel like you've arrived somewhere, or that you're at least on your way to arriving somewhere with him?"

John considers this. He is already certain that without Sherlock, he'd be leading a boring life some place other than London. Would he really want to change the way they were living now? What if he did in five years' time? What if Mrs Hudson's gone one day?

He shakes his head. Those are questions he can't possibly answer right now, but as he thinks of the man in the next room, he feels his whole body tingling. A well-known, pleasant warmth makes itself known in his belly at his mental picture of Sherlock, curled up in his sleep, and he suddenly longs for him. The feeling of being where he wants to be hasn't changed. Which seems the most important point right now.

"I've never loved anyone so much," John murmurs. "I don't think I could live without him again, not one single day."

"As much as it baffles me," Harry sighs,"but there you go. Stop worrying, little brother."

"Easier said than done," John mutters, but he feels a lot better already.

"Sure." Harry sounds like she is smiling. "Have you looked for a date yet?"

"No, we haven't. Knowing Sherlock, he'd like to do it as soon as possible, preferably before the holidays."

"That won't work. You need to give notice to the authorities first, and then there's a waiting time of about two weeks."

"Oh. Okay, I didn't know that."

"Feel free to ask away if you have any more questions."

"Thank you," he says, "For now, I will let you get back to sleep."

"Great, since we'll have to get up in a measly two hours to catch our plane."

"Oh. Oh, Harry, I'm sorry-"

"No need. I can nap on the way, and besides- I think I owed you."

"No you didn't." But John is glad that he's called his sister nevertheless. "Have a great trip. And Merry Christmas, Harry."

"Merry Christmas, Babe."

When John slips back into bed, Sherlock turns towards him: "Can't sleep?" he mutters, a little slurred and probably not quite awake.

"I'm all right, love" John whispers.

Sherlock mumbles something about warm milk and asking Mrs Hudson for it as John wraps his arm around him and snuggles up against him, and the doctor smiles against his partner's sleep-warm skin, closing his eyes and listening to the heartbeat of the man he's soon going to officially bind himself to, legally and otherwise.

* * *

Of course, Sherlock deduces John on the following morning.

"You've had trouble falling asleep," he says, "because you were worrying. And you got up in the night. You seem calm now, so I'm guessing you did something to help with your nerves. You're not hungover or smell of alcohol though, and you dislike warm milk with honey. Maybe you watched TV, or maybe... you talked to someone."

"Am I allowed to say 'brilliant' right now?" John asks meekly, putting his chin in his hand and smiling at his partner.

Sherlock tries to hide his own smile, unsuccessfully so: "I told you, it's fine."

"I love your modesty."

Sherlock puts down the paper he's been reading and regards John, ignoring the last comment: "Tell me what's been keeping you up?"

"I feel silly even thinking about it right now," John replies evasively. He shrugs: "The whole thing. Us. Getting married. It's a big step, after all."

"Did you change your mind about it?" Sherlock asks, and only someone who knows him as well as John could possibly detect the hint of insecurity in his tone.

"No, I didn't," John hurries to say. "Not at all."

Sherlock doesn't seem convinced, so John gets up and circles the table, sliding his arms around the other and resting his chin on his shoulder: "I want to marry you, love. If anything, last night's confirmed it."

He can feel Sherlock's shoulders relax at that.

"I took you by surprise," the detective says. "You didn't have much time to think about it."

"That's true. But things were pretty clear already."

"Which means you were uncertain about something else. Me."

John shakes his head, then stops. This thought hasn't even occured to him, but now that Sherlock mentioned it, it doesn't seem so unreasonable.

"You were wondering whether I suggested it merely for the practical aspects," Sherlock continues, his voice low, his body immediately tensing up again. A slight tremor runs through him, and John realizes that he's hurt.

"No," he says, firmly, "that's not it, Sherlock. I know how much you care for me."

When Sherlock remains silent, John gently reinforces his grip around him: "I didn't doubt your reasons for a second, love. You can ask Harry if you don't believe me, it's her I talked to."

After another moment of silence, Sherlock releases a slightly shuddering breath: "I do believe you." He turns around in John's embrace so that he can look at him: "Do you want to know why I want to do this?"

He looks very young and vulnerable right now. _This heart of yours is making you damageable_ , John thinks. Out loud he says:"Yes, I do."

"When you fell ill, you called me your 'half'."

"'I did?"

"You said something about me being the responsible half that day."

"Oh, yes. I remember."

"I liked that. I liked the notion that we're two halves of a whole, because that is how this feels. My younger self would have laughed at me for wanting this, but it's how it is. I have been... lonely for a large part of my life, John."

"So no more 'alone is what I have', hm?"

"No. I was stupid."

"Not on the whole, as I've told you before. You were stubborn, there's a difference."

Sherlock regards John with a curious expression: "You always defend me, even against myself."

"Well, _some_ one once said I was a conductor of light. I assume that's my angelic side."

At that, Sherlock laughs a little. "John," he then says, voice small again, and the doctor just pulls him close, keeping his arms around him for an unaccounted amount of time, taking care of Sherlock's heart.

* * *

On December 24, John can hardly wait to get out of bed.

"Christmas isn't until tomorrow," Sherlock groans because he, for once, would have liked to sleep a little longer and pulls the blankets over his head.

"You'll get ten more minutes," John says, ignoring the continuing, if slightly muffled, complaints, "I'll come and get you when breakfast is ready."

He has already tidied and cleaned the flat on the day before (with minor help from his partner), and the fridge is fully stocked with nothing but edible things. It is the first time in years John is actually looking forward to the festivities, and he intends to fully enjoy every second of them, starting with breakfast on Christmas Eve. He stirs a little cardamom into the freshly ground coffee and lights a candle.

When an initially reluctant Sherlock is being dragged into the living room a little while later, he can't but admit that it is cosy and inviting- a fire is burning in the fireplace, the fairy lights are on and several things smell fantastic; among them, the yet undecorated Christmas tree which the doctor insisted they get.

Sherlock unexpectedly feels a lump in his throat; this is how it should be, he realizes, how it looked in the picture books from his childhood. Inhabitable, welcoming, colourful.

"Thank you," he murmurs, "this... this is nice."

John refrains from asking him how Christmas at Holmes Manor has been, because he can imagine. Furthermore, Sherlock's reaction is rather unambiguous, especially considering that he didn't seem to have any particular expectations about this.

 

Later, once they are both dressed, John wants to decorate the tree. He has already brought in a few boxes with baubles and ornaments he bought recently, spending far too much money on them. It didn't matter, he told himself in the shop, since he was starting from scratch. He rarely had to spent any money on household items during his entire adulthood because the places he rented usually provided with everything he needed, and the army had done so too; now seems as good a time to start as ever. Sherlock and he are a family, after all.

John has always been a tidy person, a trait which comes in handy not only in his profession; they have invited Mycroft over for Christmas, and the doctor wants his future brother-in-law to be comfortable. John had expected protest and a lengthy discussion when he had suggested not to go to Holmes Manor but asking Mycroft to come to Baker Street instead; Sherlock however had surprised him by only shrugging and giving his consent.

"Erm-," John said, "did you actually hear what I suggested?"

"I heard you perfectly well," Sherlock replied, "and I agreed. Of course, it's less than ideal that we won't have any influence on the length of his stay, but on the whole, you are right. He should come here, it might appeal to him."

"Appeal."

"Yes. The Manor is difficult at Christmas."

Too many ghosts, John suspected.

"Here, we've got Mrs Hudson and fairy lights," Sherlock added as an afterthought.

"Right. Good. And Mrs Hudson seems to have taken a liking to Mycroft ever since he-" John paused when he saw the unmistakably mischievous glint in Sherlock's eyes: "Sherlock- unless you two will be short of killing each other, there'll be no attempts to _make_ him leave early. Not verbally, not with your violin, understand?"

"Don't know what you're talking about," Sherlock retorted, his voice sounding a tad morose now.

"We've been welcome in his house for a long time," John reminded him. "He's equally welcome here."

"Yes, yes. You were saying?"

"Right... I forgot."

" _Mrs Hudson seems to have taken a liking to Mycroft ever since he_ -"

"How do you _do_ that? Never mind. Well, she hugged him, after all."

"He's still recovering from that, I bet."

"If you manage to keep it civil, I'll make it up to you on Boxing Day."

Sherlock sat up, interested:"How?"

John looked smug:"I'll leave that to your imagination as of yet."

* * *

The scent of the tree mingles with the scent of Mrs Hudson's baking which is wafting through 221B. Listening to the Christmas carols Sherlock's playing on his violin, John has done his best to arrange the decorations evenly. He also attaches a few real candles, though he doesn't necessarily intend to light them; Sherlock has already lectured him about the fire hazard and how many Christmas trees cause whole houses to burn down each year, and John doesn't want to have to repeat the ensuing discussion. Luckily, Sherlock was content to pluck out a few of the tree's needles and is now experimenting with them; the kitchen smells of burned fir.

"It's beautiful," Mrs Hudson breathes when she comes in a little while later. "I like those little birds." She beams at John, patting his arm: "You did a wonderful job there. Merry Christmas, my dear."

John beams back, visibly growing a few inches: "Thank you, Mrs Hudson. Merry Christmas!"

"Is there something burning?" The old lady scrunches up her nose and follows the smell into the kitchen. Sherlock turns off the Bunsen burner and wipes his hands on a tea towel: "Just an experiment. Merry Christmas, Mrs Hudson," he says, kissing her on the cheek.

"Merry Christmas, love," she replies softly, hesitating for only a few seconds before pulling him into an embrace, and Sherlock is certain that her eyes were suddenly swimming just now. "Sorry, I'm being silly," she whispers when she pulls back, fumbling in her sleeve for a handkerchief. "No need to snivel, I know."

"You're perfect just like you are," Sherlock murmurs in an undertone, handing her the same tea towel he used earlier. "Despite the frequent snivelling."

"Oh, shut up, will you," she can't subdue a teary chuckle, eliciting a smile from him.

* * *

That afternoon, all three of them go to the Christmas Eve Carol Service in St Paul's Cathedral because Mrs Hudson wished to attend it and asked her boys to accompany her. Neither of the two are particularly religious, but that doesn't matter; Sherlock likes the music, and for John, the atmosphere is reminiscent of something which definitely has been a part of his childhood, too fleeting to grasp and yet solid, the very essence of Christmas itself, or rather, the idea of it.

Mrs Hudson hums along each song and seems happy, ever so often glancing at the fedora Sherlock is wearing, and he manages to stay calm despite the occasional crying child and other disturbances. It is on all accounts infinitely preferable to Christmas in the previous year. John seems to sense in which direction Sherlock's thoughts are headed, as he surreptitiously takes the detective's hand and holds it tight.

It is already dark when they leave the church; it doesn't snow, but at least it's still properly cold.

The warmth of the fire is a blessing once they are back home, and they all enjoy a cup of tea and some of Mrs Hudson's cookies before she and John begin to make dinner. Sherlock takes up his violin again, which is his way of avoiding having to help.

At midnight, Sherlock plays John's nocturne. Mrs Hudson has already gone to bed, but the detective and the doctor have stayed up a while longer, watching the embers of the fire glow and slowly fall apart.

Comfortably toasted, John admires his partner as he brings the violin to life, each movement with purpose and full of grace. He'll probably never tire of looking at Sherlock, but now he closes his eyes, allowing the music to wash over him. He's unaware that he's smiling, and he never stops once the last note fades away. Sherlock puts the violin onto its stand and eases himself down on the rug in front of John's armchair, leaning back against the doctor's legs.

"Thank you," John whispers.

Sherlock only hums. Slowly, he tips his head back, closing his eyes with a content little sigh. Exactly one year ago, he was in Switzerland, trying to tell himself it didn't matter, that he was exactly as lonely on the other days, but he had missed John so much, had felt so far away from home that it hurt. It's something he doesn't want to think about. All he permits himself to remember about that time is coldness.

John runs his hands through Sherlock´s hair: "Tired?"

Instead of a verbal answer, the detective leans into the touch, so John increases the pressure on the other´s scalp, gently massaging the skin.

Slowly, the ever present tension in Sherlock´s frame dissolves, and he fully relaxes into John´s caress.

"I know what you're thinking about," John ventures a guess, "stop worrying."

Sherlock growls in protest: "I'm not worrying."

"'Kay- stop pondering. It'll be fine."

He means Mycroft, Sherlock realizes, and plays along: "We haven't spent Christmas together in years, for several good reasons."

"That was _before._ "

"Yes," Sherlock concedes. "He's slightly less insufferable now."

John gives a good-natured sigh: "Just remember Boxing Day, Sherlock."

"I wouldn't mind a foretaste."

John chuckles: "Bed, then?"

"Not yet," Sherlock murmurs, his gaze straying back to the dying embers.

There's not much warmth left now, but that's okay. Here in this place, he's got the opposite of coldness.

  


(author takes a deep, shuddering breath)

**The End**

 

All that's left now is an epilogue.

I am of course repeating myself, but I'd like to thank you all for reading once again.

 

The title of this chapter is stolen from _Love, Actually_.

 


	22. Epilogue

 

**Hazard Control  
**

 

Epilogue

 

On the morning of his birthday on January 6, Sherlock slowly comes to awareness because someone is pressing tender kisses on his face.

"Happy Birthday, love," John murmurs against the detective's skin, adding another kiss. Sherlock kisses back, not quite awake, and feels a gentle hand on his cheek: "I'll be back at noon," John's voice is soft, "go back to sleep."

Much to the doctor's chagrin, he couldn't take the whole day off, since the flu is going around again and he has to cover for a colleague. At least it's only a short morning shift, he tells himself, turning around for one last glance at Sherlock, who has already dozed off again. It'd be so much better if John could crawl back into bed with him, especially since it's not even light outside yet; the rest of the world seems cold and unwelcoming in comparison to this.

With a pang of regret and a sigh, John closes the bedroom door behind him. Sherlock looked so peaceful and utterly relaxed just now; inviting. John subconsciously smiles as he heads down the stairs, because it is in fact not that much different to how Sherlock is around him these days when he's awake.

Something Mycroft said to him on Christmas Day comes to his mind:

"My brother has never seemed so content," Mycroft stated, "he always carried a pain with him, hidden deep inside what he calls his Mind Palace. You've changed that, John. You've eased it."

John can't but feel a little proud as he considers this.

* * *

Sherlock wakes up two hours later; the scent of freshly-baked pastries is filling the air, and he can hear Mrs Hudson's electric coffee grinder downstairs. Groggily, he turns onto his side and closes his eyes once more, just for a few seconds. He's 36 as of today, who'd have thought. There were moments when he didn't expect to live that long, and it seems quite an achievement. Not only his age, though, but everything which has happened: he has found someone who loves him, and they are going to get married. Amazing, considering that he was a loner for most of his life, didn't want anyone to come too close.

His fingers touch something other than cloth, something which seems out of the ordinary in a bed. Curiously, Sherlock opens his eyes: there's an envelope lying on John's pillow, with Sherlock's name on it in the doctor's meticulous handwriting.

Sherlock opens it and pulls out a letter.

 

_Dear Sherlock_ , it reads,

_We've already talked a lot these past months and I'm glad we did, but I still feel there are some things left unsaid._

_I love you with everything that I have, and I'm in awe that it is enough. It's overwhelming, amazing, that you love me back. I've always thought you're capable of feelings, I just didn't expect this. I didn't expect the new 'us' to be so amazing. Because that's how it feels like, amazing, and it's getting better every day. I worried about how things'd turn out once we'd be back home, but I now realize I needn't have._

_Needless to say I'm so happy that you're here with me, on this day, that I can touch you and feel your warmth and your heartbeat. The world was a horrible place without you in it, and I never want to experience that again (which is another way to say 'many happy returns' I guess- in fact, I'd rather say 'as many happy returns as possible')._

_You're the best thing which has ever happened to me, Sherlock, so please forgive me for being soppy- this just wanted out, and I thought I'd better write it down in case you'd start laughing at me (or scowling, I haven't made up my mind about that)._

_I have furthermore tried to come up with how to call you- something which only I would be allowed to say to you. I quickly dismissed these: Darling. Dearest. Honey. And a lot of others (we've talked about that, remember?). Then I recalled what you told me: you love best about me that I love you. And that was when I realized that I don't need any other term of endearment, because no matter how many other people call you by your name, it's still special between you and me (which makes me very wise, I believe. Yes, my wisdom is also responsible for the fact that I didn't include a smiley face just before this sentence. And after it). And soon I'll get to call you husband, which no one else will ever be able to do, and I feel giddy just thinking about it._

_Anyway. The bottom line is the same as the one I've almost started with- I love you, Sherlock Holmes. I hope you'll have a long and healthy life, and tonight we're going to celebrate the start of this new year._

_Happy Birthday._

_John_

There is a postscript scrawled underneath, obviously written in haste and with another pen:

_PS: And now I have to work even though I'd much rather be at home today. At least I'd already written this letter, but I'm sorry I can't be there to make you breakfast and take you back to bed afterwards. Mrs Hudson's on to it instead. The breakfast, I mean._

This time, he had included a smiley face.

 

 

**The End**

(for real this time)

 

Thank you for reading. Please leave some feedback.

 


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